THE  MEASURE 


NORMAN  DUNCAN 


THE  MEASURE 
of  A  MAN 


Other  Books 
By  NORMAN  DUNCAN 

Doctor  Luke  of  The  Labrador  :  A  Novel. 
The  Cruise  of  the  Shining  Light:  A  Novel. 
Every  Man  for  Himself:  A  Collection  of 

Short  Stories. 

The  Mother  :     A  Short  Novel. 
The  Suitable  Child  :     A  Christmas  Story. 
The  Adventures  of  Billy  Topsail :    A  Story 

for  Boys. 
Billy  Topsail  and  Company :    A  Story  for 

Boys. 
The  Way  of  the  Sea :     A  Collection  of 

Short  Stories. 

Dr.   Grenfell's   Parish:     The   Deep   Sea 
Fishermen. 


VMV.  OF  CALIF.  LWWARY.  LOS 


'Make  of  this  child,  a  Man" 


THE   MEASURE 
of  A  MAN 

A  Tale  of  The  Big  Woods 


By 
NORMAN  DUNCAN 

Author  of  '•'•Doctor  Luke  of 
the  Labrador"  etc. 


New     York  Chicago  Toronto 

Fleming     H.     Re  veil    Company 

London  and  Edinburgh 


Copyright,  1911,  by 
FLEMING    H.    REVELL   COMPANY 


New  York:  158  Fifth  Avenue 
Chicago:  123  North  Wabash  Ave. 
Toronto:  25  Richmond  Street,  W. 
London :  2 1  Paternoster  Square 
Edinburgh:  100  Princes  Street 


To  The 
L.  L.  of  E.  0. 


2129168 


To  the  Reader 

IT  is  known  that  the  way  back  is  hard  trudg- 
ing and  a  long  path.  No  man,  it  may  be, 
having  run  the  length  of  his  will  for  run- 
ning, has  got  back  alone  to  clean  fields  of  rest 
and  endeavour.  Love  is  much  on  these  harsh 
trails,  they  say  ;  but  love  is  no  sure  guide  and 
helper.  It  is  maintained  that  such  as  have  been 
helped  return  neither  with  reasonable  tales  of 
their  black  wanderings  nor  reasonable  descrip- 
tions of  the  way.  They  tell,  rather,  in  a  manner 
incoherent  and  obscure,  of  a  mystical  Hand  that 
helped :  but  concerning  this  Hand  are  various 
faiths  among  them  ;  and  among  those  who  listen, 
bewildered,  being  themselves  apart  from  the  ex- 
perience, are  many  surmises,  of  course.  Here 
in  this  book  is  neither  faith  nor  surmise:  but 
only  a  tale  told — without  any  hint  of  guidance 
other  than  the  established  truths  of  the  narrative 
may  of  their  own  notion  convey. 

N.  D. 

Indian  Pond,  Maine, 
July  a,  ign. 


WHEN  some  years  ago  the  author  pub- 
lished "Doctor  Luke  of  The  Labra- 
dor," it  was  mistakenly  inferred  by 
many  thousands  of  readers  that  the  tale  was  a 
literal  description  of  the  life  of  Dr.  Wilfred  T. 
Grenfell ;  and  a  great  confusion  resulted.  It  is 
hoped  that  the  reader  will  not  confuse  the  hero 
of  "  The  Measure  of  a  Man "  with  the  Rev. 
Francis  E.  Higgins  of  Minnesota.  Mr.  Higgins 
is  a  missionary  of  the  Presbyterian  Board  of 
Home  Missions — a  very  real  man,  doing  a  real 
and  admirable  work  for  his  Church  in  the  woods 
of  the  Northwest.  Although  some  of  the  in- 
cidents of  this  story  are  taken  directly  from  his 
experience,  and  many  others  are  founded  upon 
certain  passages  in  his  missionary  career,  it  must 
not  be  inferred  that  the  man  himself  bears  any 
invidious  resemblance  to  John  Fairmeadow.  It 
must  be  added  that  the  story  is  not  a  tale  of  the 
lumbering  industry  but  of  a  singular  man  at 
work  among  lumber-jacks. 

N.  D. 


Contents 

I.  The  Stranger  at  Swamp's  End     .         .       13 

II.  An  Engagement  with  God  .          .          .        18 

III.  The  Man  from  Bottle  River  .     .         .28 

IV.  A  Pastoral  Call 35 

V.  Pick  and  Shovel           ....       45 

VI.  Sown  in  Dishonour     ....       52 

VII.  Pale  Peter's  Game      .         .         .         .60 

VIII.  In  Love  with  a  Flower        .         .  72 

IX.  The  Wistful  Heart     ....       82 

X.  A  Gift  Neglected        .         .         .         .92 

XI.  The  Making  of  a  Man        ...       96 

XII.  Christmas  Eve  at  Swamp's  End  .         .     106 

XIII.  Billy  the  Beast  Starts  Home         .         .     113 

XIV.  Pale  Peter's  Donald    .         .         .         .126 

XV.  Fist  Play 141 

XVI.  Theological  Training  .         .         .     155 

XVII.  A  Father  for  the  Baby         .         .         .168 

XVIII.  Gingerbread 181 

XIX.  The  Boy  He  Used  to  Know        .         .     189 

XX.  A  Little  About  Life    .         .         .         .194 

9 


io  CONTENTS 

XXI.  That  Measure  of  Love    . 

XXII.  On  the  Grade 

XXIII.  What  Happened  to  Tom  Hitch 

XXIV.  Fairmeadow's  Justice 

XXV.  The  Trial  Kiss 

XXVI.  Under  Fire      . 

XXVII.  Bound  Through       . 

XXVIII.  Father  and  Son         ... 

XXIX.  A  Miracle  at  Pale  Peter's 

XXX.  The  End  of  the  Game     . 

XXXI.  In  His  Own  Behalf 

XXXII.  Love  and  Labour 


.  203 

.  2IO 

.  221 

.  232 

.  241 

•  255 

.  271 

.  284 

.  297 

•  3*3 

•  330 

•  348 


Illustrations 


"  Make  of  this  child,  a  Man  "...    Frontispiece 

"  It's  all  very  well  for  you  t'  warm  your 
shanks  an'  toast  your  souls,"  Rowl 
growled  .....  Facing  page  1 8  z 

"  I  want  Tom  Hitch,  says  the  Sheriff"  .         "        "        238 


ii 


The  Measure  of  a  Man 


THE  STRANGER  AT  STAMP'S  END 

THAT  a  dog  fight — a  growling  squabble 
in  the  early  summer  dust  and  sunshine 
— should  upset  the  lumber-woods  set- 
tlement of  Swamp's  End  and  divert  her  most 
eminent  citizens  from  their  accustomed  employ- 
ments was  in  itself  almost  sign  manifest  of  the 
awakening  interest  of  Providence  in  that  be- 
nighted but  fervently  joyous  community.  When 
it  is  explained  that  the  dog  fight  occurred  simul- 
taneously with  the  appearance  of  John  Fair- 
meadow  in  the  clearing — and  after  proper  reflec- 
tion upon  the  remarkable  coincidence — it  will  be 
obvious  that  nothing  more  need  be  said.  The 
absence  of  an  instant  and  grateful  perception 
of  the  impending  beneficence,  however,  on  the 
part  of  Swamp's  End,  is  to  be  condoned  :  Provi- 
dence had  never  before  interfered  at  Swamp's 
End.  Nor  had  Swamp's  End  now  deputed  any 
person  or  persons  whomsoever  to  invite  the  in- 
tervention of  Providence,  or  of  any  other  super- 
cilious Easterner,  including  John  Fairmeadow, 


14       The  STRANGER  at  SWAMP'S  END 

in  her  domestic  concerns.  The  domestic  con- 
cerns of  Swamp's  End,  of  course,  were  cherished 
at  Swamp's  End  as  inviolate ;  and  Swamp's 
End  was  not  at  all  conscious  of  any  need  of 
providential  assistance  in  the  management  of 
them. 

"  You  see,"  Gingerbread  Jenkins  has  since  been 
heard  to  apologize,  "  the  boys  wasn't  quite  used 
t'  Providence." 

There  is  a  generous  concurrence. 

"Somehow,  too,"  Plain  Tom  Hitch  drawls  in 
explanation,  "  Providence  didn't  seem  t'  be  very 
well  acquainted  with  the  boys.  " 

In  those  days,  Swamp's  End  was  on  scantest 
— and,  I  fear,  most  suspicious — terms  of  acquaint- 
ance with  Providence.  Swamp's  End  regarded 
Providence  in  the  light  of  a  sinister  stranger,  of 
vastly  mysterious  and  engaging  personality,  per- 
haps— of  some  noteworthy  fame,  to  be  sure — and 
certainly  of  accomplishments  not  to  be  despised  by 
any  cautious  individual — with  whom,  however,  it 
would  be  quite  as  well  to  have  nothing  to  do,  in 
any  intimate  way,  until  the  sensational  rumours, 
affecting  the  visitor's  reputation  as  a  gentleman 
of  those  qualities  held  in  highest  admiration  at 
Swamp's  End,  should  have  been  rigidly  investi- 
gated. Moreover,  the  dog  fight  was  of  such  an 
extraordinary  aspect — a  contention  so  singular — 
and  so  indecent  in  issue — that  Swamp's  End  was 


The  STRANGER  at  STAMP'S  END        15 

far  too  happily  engrossed  in  the  progress  of  the 
affair  to  discover  the  hand  of  Providence  in  its 
inception.  Swamp's  End  was  inclined  towards 
excitement  of  that  mild  description,  and  was  used 
to  indulging,  of  course,  in  entertainment  at  once 
much  more  reprehensible  and  engaging ;  and 
Swamp's  End  is  not  fairly  to  be  condemned  for 
preferring  its  accustomed  diversions  above  fast- 
ing and  prayer,  of  which,  believe  me,  it  knew 
nothing  at  all,  as  a  community,  and  had  never 
been  told. 

According  to  old  John  Rowl,  the  sealer  from 
Kettle  Camp  of  the  Cant-hook  cutting,  who  had 
sardonically  cherished  the  rise  of  Swamp's  End 
from  its  obscure  beginnings  with  one  shanty 
saloon  to  the  flourishing  prosperity  of  its  thirty- 
two— according  to  old  John  Rowl,  Gingerbread 
Jenkins,  the  Bottle  River  swamper,  subsequently 
remarked  in  Pale  Peter's  bar  : 

"  Gawd  moo-ooves  in  a  mystee-ee-eerious  way, 
His  wonders  to  pre-form," 

and  the  sentiment  was  promptly  adopted  as  a 
succinct  expression  of  the  general  feeling  in  respect 
to  the  occurrences  of  the  day  and  the  amazing 
situation  which  the  advent  of  John  Fairmeadow 
had  precipitated  upon  the  startled  community. 

The  agitated  bar  agreed,  it  is  reported,  and 
with  the  only  recorded  unanimity. 

"  That's  reason,"  Charlie  the  Infidel  declared. 


1 6         The  STRANGER  at  SWAMP'S  END 

Gingerbread  Jenkins,  it  seemed,  had  dropped 
a  pearl  of  wisdom  from  the  casket  of  his  mem- 
ory ;  and  Gingerbread  Jenkins,  elated  by  the  im- 
pression his  philosophical  quotation  had  achieved 
upon  the  popular  bewilderment,  would  have  cast 
other  pearls  of  the  sort,  with  a  free,  glad  hand, 
in  expectation  of  increasing  the  enlightenment, 
had  not  Plain  Tom  Hitch  been  distracted  from 
his  liquor  by  an  illuminating  idea. 

"  There's  a  lot  o'  common  sense,"  said  Plain 
Tom  Hitch,  "  in  them  old  school-books." 

"  You  take  a  man's  mother,"  Billy  the  Beast 
began,  "an*  her  teachin' " 

"  Gimme  a  match." 

Gingerbread  Jenkins  was  about  to  give  tongue, 
once  more,  when  Charlie  the  Infidel,  Pale  Peter's 
bartender,  interrupted  with  a  suggestion  which 
in  the  gravest  parliamentary  fashion  was  at 
Swamp's  End  always  and  sacredly  in  order. 

"What'll  ye  have,  boys?"  said  he;  "the 
drinks  is  on  the  house." 

Plain  Tom  Hitch  stroked  his  beard,  in  a  muse 
of  anxious  deliberation,  and  gently  whispered  : 

"  A  liT  licker,  Charlie— fer  me." 

The  echo  ran  down  the  frowzy  line : 

"  A  liT  licker— fer  mine." 

"  The  same,  Charlie,  fer  me." 

"  Mine's— a  liT  licker." 

They  had  the  liquor,  man  and  boy,  in  hearty 
drams,  and  in  this  convivial  way  the  arrival  of 


STRANGER  at  SWAMP'S  END        17 

Providence  at  Swamp's  End  was  accepted  and 
celebrated  according  to  the  customs.  There- 
after Almighty  God  was  a  familiar  inhabitant  of 
Swamp's  End — and  of  the  logging  camps  of  all 
His  great  surrounding  woods — and  might  fairly 
have  been  enumerated  in  the  census.  It  is  to  be 
noted,  however,  that  John  Fairmeadow  intro- 
duced and  vouched  for  Him,  as  shall  presently 
be  told.  To  the  amazement  of  Swamp's  End 
the  Stranger  behaved  Himself  with  perfect  pro- 
priety even  according  to  the  somewhat  difficult 
standards  of  the  place.  Swamp's  End  was 
proud  of  Him.  He  turned  out  to  be  genial, 
kindly,  wise,  fair-minded,  chivalrous, — quite  a 
manly  Chap :  a  worthy,  acceptable,  winning 
Fellow,  truly !  Swamp's  End  occasionally  dis- 
agreed with  Him,  of  course.  That  was  inevi- 
table. Both  Swamp's  End  and  the  Stranger 
had  positive  convictions.  But  Swamp's  End  was 
very  fond  of  Him,  nevertheless. 


II 

AN   ENGAGEMENT  WITH   GOD 

SWAMP'S  END  gave  no  impression  of  hav- 
ing taken  permanent  possession  of  the 
clearing  in  which  it  was  situated.  In  sug- 
gestion it  was  rather  a  lumber-woods  settlement 
which  had  not  quite  made  up  its  mind  about 
settling,  being  for  the  moment  too  much  preoc- 
cupied with  a  bottle.  It  seemed,  on  second 
thought,  merely  to  have  squatted  in  a  mud- 
puddle  in  the  midst  of  the  woods  to  rest  its 
inebriated  legs.  The  thirty-two  shanty  saloons 
of  the  high-street  had  certainly  locked  arms  and 
gone  into  a  drunken  stupor  in  the  cozy  shelter 
of  the  pines.  They  leaned  one  against  the  other 
in  singular  and  helpless  dependence,  necks  limp, 
bodies  lax  and  awry,  hats  cocked  or  gone ;  and 
they  were  quite  unashamed  of  their  scandalous 
condition,  because,  perhaps,  they  were  in  the 
fashion,  and  conducted  themselves  precisely  as 
everybody  expected  them  to  behave,  and  after 
the  approved  model  of  those  woods. 

A  push,  of  course — a  vigorous  push  by  John 
Fairmeadow — might  have  sent  them  sprawling ; 
and  Fairmeadow  was  even  then  on  the  trail  from 
Elegant  Corners  to  Big  Rapids,  momentarily 

18 


An    ENGAGEMENT   WITH   GOD         19 

approaching.  But  Pale  Peter's  place,  the  ram- 
shackle hotel  on  the  corner,  might  not  have 
yielded  so  easily.  It  achieved  an  impression  of 
sleepy  sobriety,  and  it  was  at  least  steady  on  its 
legs.  What  other  habitations  there  were — a 
lesser  crew,  compounded  of  logs,  turf,  pine-board 
and  tar-paper,  with  a  helpful  addition  of  packing 
boxes — squatted  near  in  various  attitudes  of  in- 
ebriety, now  lying,  all  beggared  and  listless,  in  a 
glowing  summer  haze  and  pause.  No  matter, 
however :  the  whole — the  company  of  makeshift 
dwellings  no  less  than  the  folk  who  went  in 
and  out — was  peregrinating  west  by  north  on  the 
heels  of  the  slow-moving  lumber  camps ;  and 
what  broken  bodies  and  souls  might  be  left  with 
the  refuse  of  the  sojourn  in  the  balsamic  clearing 
concerned  nobody. 

The  aspiring  homesteaders  would  presently 
raise  a  city  in  that  place  and  give  it  a  new  name. 

It  was  an  eventful  day  at  Swamp's  End — the 
still  and  mellow  Sunday  of  John  Fairmeadow's 
first  professional  appearance.  The  dog  fight 
served  importantly  to  gather  the  crowd,  of 
course,  and  to  enlist  the  hurrying  Fairmeadow's 
attention  ;  but  the  dog  fight  was  not  all.  In  the 
early  hours  oi  the  morning — a  warm,  flushed 
dawn — a  tote-wagon,  drawn  by  two  stolid  black 
beasts,  and  gravely  driven  by  Plain  Tom  Hitch, 
had  arrived  from  the  Bottle  River  camps,  bear- 


20         An    ENGAGEMENT    WITH   GOD 

ing  the  mortal  remains  of  Gray  Billy  Batch, 
who  had  departed  this  life,  much  to  the  annoy- 
ance of  the  foreman  of  the  drive,  and  doubtless 
to  his  own  surprise  and  alarm,  in  the  Rattle 
Water  rapids  below  Big  Bend  of  Bottle  River. 
He  had  been  a  scurrilous  dog  when  the  breath 
of  life  was  in  him,  a  sour  and  unloved  wastrel 
of  his  days,  morose,  unkempt,  ill-mouthed,  in  a 
rage  with  all  the  world,  save  one  young  heart, 
and  least  kind  of  all  to  the  body  they  presently 
fished  from  the  swirl  and  foam  of  the  eddy  below 
Rattle  Water,  and  to  the  misled  soul  that  had 
sped  to  the  solution  of  its  own  mystery. 

It  is  to  be  regretted  that  a  division  of  the 
Bottle  River  drive,  employed  in  the  neighbour- 
hood, and  thus  fortunately  vantaged  to  observe 
the  departure  of  Gray  Billy  Batch,  experienced  a 
flush  of  rejoicing  at  the  moment  of  inevitable 
farewell.  When,  however,  the  dripping  corpse 
lay  on  the  bank,  the  feet  still  in  the  wash  of  the 
water,  the  gray  face  in  the  shadow  of  the  birches, 
the  Bottle  River  drive  stood  voiceless  and  quiet 
in  this  Presence ;  and,  perhaps,  old  terrors  awoke, 
and  the  strings  of  memory  were  touched,  and 
the  depths  gave  tongue.  At  any  rate,  in  the 
more  charitable  mood  of  that  soft  afternoon,  it 
was  informally  resolved,  and  without  Gray  Billy 
Batch's  consent  or  interest  in  the  extraordinary 
proceeding,  that  the  only  surviving  relative  of 
the  deceased  should  forthwith  be  apprized  of  the 


An    ENGAGEMENT    WHH   GOD         21 

lamentable  fatality  and  assured  of  the  deep  sense 
of  personal  loss  under  which  his  associates  of 
the  Bottle  River  camps  drooped  disconsolate. 

The  surviving  relative  was  Patience,  Gray 
Billy  Batch's  daughter,  a  sweet,  brown  mite, 
with  a  child's  curious  outlook  upon  the  world  of 
Swamp's  End,  though  now  fast  and  shyly  ap- 
proaching her  eighteenth  year.  It  was  Saturday 
evening,  at  sunset,  with  the  breeze  fallen  away 
to  an  odorous  breath  of  air,  when  Gingerbread 
Jenkins,  sufficiently  fortified,  but  still  agitated 
and  heavy  with  his  errand,  came  upon  her,  wait- 
ing in  the  dooryard  of  the  shack,  a  listless  log 
dwelling  which  Gray  Billy  Batch  had  knocked 
together  at  the  edge  of  the  clearing  in  which 
Swamp's  End  squatted.  "  Pattie,  my  dear,"  said 
he,  with  a  soothing  hand  on  the  girl's  shoulder, 
"  your  pop  won't  be  comin'  home  t' -night." 

The  girl  looked  up  in  quick  alarm. 

"  You  see,"  Gingerbread  added,  "  he's — de- 
layed." 

"  That's  funny,"  Pattie  replied  ;  "  he  most  al- 
ways comes  home  from  the  Bottle  River  on 
Saturday  night.  I — I — been  waitin'." 

Gingerbread  Jenkins  sighed.  "  Not  t'-night," 
said  he.  "  You  see,  he's — hindered." 

"I — I— I  been  waitiri "  pretty  little  Pattie 
Batch  complained. 

"  He's — hindered,"  Gingerbread  blankly  re- 
peated. 


22         An    ENGAGEMENT   WITH    GOD 

"  Is  he  comin'  t'-morrow?" 

"Well,  yes,"  Gingerbread  admitted,  more 
heartily  ;  "  you  see,  he'll  be  fetched." 

"  What  say  ?  " 

"  He'll  come  home,  all  right,"  Gingerbread 
repeated,  "  fetched — in  a  sort  of  a  way." 

"  Is  he  drunk  ?  " 

"  Drunk?  Oh,  my,  no  !  "  Gingerbread  Jenkins 
protested  ;  "he  ain't  drunk,  my  dear." 

"Is  he  near  drunk ? " 

Gingerbread  Jenkins,  hard  put  to  it  for  words 
wherewithal  in  the  presence  of  a  lady,  ejaculated  : 
"  Good  gracious,  no  ! " 

"  That's  funny,"  said  Pattie  Batch.  "  Where's 
he  gettin'  drunk  ?  " 

"  He  ain't  gettin'  drunk  nowheres." 

"Not  £•£#&»'  drunk?"  Pattie  Batch  exclaimed. 
"  That's  funny." 

"You  see,"  Gingerbread  gently  exclaimed 
"your  pop  won't  be  drunk  no  more." 

"  Is  he — is  he — dead  ?  " 

Gingerbread  Jenkins  was  flustered  by  this 
abrupt  question.  It  bewildered  him,  too,  to 
learn,  all  in  a  flash  of  revelation,  that  Gray  Billy 
Batch  had  been  loved  and  would  be  mourned. 
"  Oh,  well,  now ! "  he  replied,  hurriedly,  "  I 
wouldn't  go  so  far  as  t'  say  that.  I'd  say,"  he 
explained,  lamely,  "  that  he  was — that  he  was — 
engaged." 

"  Who's  his  business  with  ?  " 


An    ENGAGEMENT    WITH   GOD         23 

Gingerbread  Jenkins'  bleared  eyes  were  all  at 
once  flushed.  "  Your  pop's  business,  my  dear," 
he  answered,  softly,  driven  to  the  disclosure  at 
last,  "  is  with  God." 

"  Pop's  dead ! "  the  girl  gasped. 

Gingerbread's  eyes  overflowed.  Off  came  his 
old  cloth  cap.  He  nodded.  "  Pop's  dead,"  said 
he. 

"  Pop's  dead  1 "  Pattie  repeated,  her  gray  eyes 
round  with  wonder,  which  no  pain  had  yet  dis- 
turbed. "  Pop's  dead  ! "  She  brooded  upon  this 
new  thing  ;  and  presently,  with  a  start,  her  hands 
fallen  upon  her  agitated  bosom,  she  turned  to 
the  shack,  wherein,  through  the  open  door,  she 
seemed  to  discover  her  loneliness,  but  not  yet  to 
be  troubled  by  it.  She  looked,  then,  without 
concern,  to  the  high,  darkening  sky,  and  to 
the  flaring  sunset  clouds,  above  the  black  pines, 
whence  her  wistful  glance  fell  to  the  besotted 
settlement,  huddled  in  the  gathering  shadows 
beyond  the  confines  of  her  familiar  place.  "  He's 
dead ! "  she  whispered.  "  Pop's  dead  ! " 

"  Hush  1 "  Gingerbread  Jenkins  besought  her ; 
"don't  cry." 

She  was  not  crying ;  she  looked  up  to  him  with 
the  light  of  interest  lively  in  her  gray  eyes,  for 
which,  perhaps,  the  monotony  of  her  days  is  to 
be  blamed.  "  When's  the  fun'l  ?  "  she  inquired. 

"  Eh  ? "  Gingerbread  Jenkins  ejaculated. 
"When's  what?" 


24         An    ENGAGEMENT    WITH   GOD 

"When'sthefun'l?" 

"Whose?" 

"Why,  pop's!" 

"  Oh  ! "  said  Gingerbread,  enlightened  but  not 
advised,  and  now  taken  aback.  "  I  see" 

"  Coin'  t'  be  a  fun'l,  isn't  there  ?  " 

"Eh?" 

"Isn't  there  goin'  t'  be  no  fun'l?" 

"Well,  you  see,"  said  Gingerbread,  "he'll  be 
buried" 

"That  all?" 

"Well,"  Gingerbread  admitted,  "I  haven't 
heard  nobody  say  nothin'  about  no  funeerial." 

"  No  fun'l  ?  "  Pattie  wailed.    "  No  fun'l  a-ta//  f  " 

Gingerbread  deliberated.  The  matter  of  ob- 
sequies had  not  been  included  in  his  instructions. 
But  something  had  to  be  done  to  correct  this 
flow  of  tears.  "  Didn't  hear  nobody  say  nothin' 
much  about  no  funeerial,"  he  hedged. 

Pattie  whimpered. 

"  But  I'm  told,"  Gingerbread  ventured,  "  that 
the  boys  had  a  little  game  like  that  in  mind." 

Pattie  began  to  cry  outright. 

"You  see,"  Gingerbread  hastily  proceeded, 
"there  was  a  deal  o'  talk  about  consultin'  the 
only  survivin'  re-lation  about  the  percession." 

The  girl  looked  up  with  a  wet  and  glistening 
smile. 

"An'  there'll  be  a  funeerial,"  Gingerbread 
Jenkins  declared,  flushed  with  tender  deter- 


An    ENGAGEMENT    WITH   GOD         25 

mination,  "  or  there'll  be  hell  t'  pay  on  Bottle 
River!" 

And  when  the  uplifted  Gingerbread  Jenkins 
went  away  resolved  upon  his  own  concerns — to 
agitate  a  spectacle,  in  fact,  worthy  of  easing  poor 
Pattie  Batch's  grief — Pattie  Batch  did  not  go 
into  the  cabin.  She  did  not  so  much  as  look  in 
that  ghostly  direction  ;  she  turned  her  back,  with 
a  frightened  little  shudder,  and  strayed  off  to  the 
twilit  woods.  She  did  not  go  far,  at  all :  she 
dared  not ;  it  was  darkening  fast,  and  she  was 
afraid  as  she  had  never  before  known  fear.  But 
she  found  at  the  edge  of  the  clearing  a  com- 
panionable patch  of  wild-flowers,  come  to  their 
shy  and  fragrant  blooming  in  the  sunny  weather 
of  that  day ;  and  she  plucked  them,  while  the 
soft  light  lasted,  and  adorned  herself,  according 
to  her  nature — God's  jewels,  flung  broadcast  in 
love  upon  the  earth,  inspiring  no  avarice,  now 
peeping  from  her  cloud  of  dark  hair,  and  clasped 
around  her  slender  wrists,  and  wreathing  her 
shoulders,  an  acceptable  garland.  It  was  a 
pleasant  thing  to  do  ;  she  was  distracted  by  the 
delights  of  her  fairy  occupation  and  by  her 
thronging  fancies,  as  she  had  always  been,  on 
the  edge  of  the  woods  at  twilight.  All  the  while 
she  sang  very  softly  some  sad  expression  of  her 
mood,  in  the  way  she  had  ;  and  no  brooding- 
cadence  of  the  wild-throated  woods,  no  amorous 


26         An    ENGAGEMENT    WHH    GOD 

serenade  of  the  dusk,  no  nesting  twitter,  was 
sweeter,  none  more  spontaneously  swelling,  than 
her  clear,  melancholy  notes. 

It  was  night :  she  must  go  back  to  her  known 
place. 

"  I  got  t'  be  a  man,"  thought  she. 

It  was  what  Gray  Billy  Batch  used  to  tell  her 
— scurrilous  Billy  Batch  who  loved  nothing  in 
the  world  beside  her.  "You  got  t'  be  a  little 
man,"  he  used  to  say  ;  and  Pattie  had  altogether 
mastered  the  teaching. 

"I  got  t'  be  a  little  man,"  she  determined, 
again,  "  like  pop  used  t'  say." 

So  she  gave  her  fears  to  the  shadows  of  night, 
in  a  long  sigh,  and  set  out,  with  a  resolute  shake 
of  her  little  head,  which  showered  the  flowers 
from  her  hair,  and  with  a  step  that  was  not 
afraid.  But  she  was  not  to  be  alone  in  the  cabin, 
after  all,  it  seemed ;  she  came,  there,  into  the  dis- 
quieting company  of  her  future. 

"  I  s'pose  I  got  t'  do  something,"  she  mused, 
much  troubled. 

It  was  not  clear  what  that  should  be. 

"  Can't  stay  here  all  alone  no  more,"  she  de- 
termined. "  I  just  simply  can't." 

By  and  by  she  busied  herself  upon  a  black 
gown,  which  had  been  her  mother's,  long  ago ; 
and  she  ripped,  and  she  basted,  and  she  tucked, 
and  she  sewed,  singing  a  little,  like  a  child  who 
cannot  comprehend  a  swiftly  encompassing  sor- 


An    ENGAGEMENT   WITH   GOD         27 

row,  and  sighing  a  little,  too,  and  now  and  again 
overcome  by  a  vision  of  her  desolate  state, 
whereupon  she  cried  bitterly.  It  was  dawn — 
flushing  mild  and  rosy  over  all  the  redolent, 
dewy,  lively  world — before  her  nimble  little  fin- 
gers rested.  And  she  sighed,  then,  and  having 
recited  her  prayers  lay  down  to  sleep,  in  poign- 
ant grief,  and  sobbed  herself  far  away  from  all 
her  trouble.  Poor  little  Pattie  Batch — lying, 
now,  forsaken,  in  Gray  Billy  Batch's  cabin  at  the 
edge  of  the  big,  black  woods  1  Unknowing  little 
soul,  sweet  and  trustful — cast  now  by  Death 
into  the  vast  confusion  of  life  !  But  Pattie  Batch 
was  going  to  be  a  UT  man.  Yes,  sir,  by  ginger  I 
Pattie  Batch  was  going  to  be  a  li'F  man  in  every 
fortune. 


Ill 

THE   MAN  FROM  BOTTLE   RIYER 

IN  consequence  of  all  this,  the  tote-wagon, 
bearing  the  mortal  remains  of  Gray  Billy 
Batch,  covered  from  the  blithesome  new  day 
with  a  gray  blanket,  had  gravely  emerged  from 
the  forest  in  the  early  hours  of  the  morning,  the 
reins  in  the  knowing  hands  of  Plain  Tom  Hitch. 
It  was  presently  drawn  up  at  the  Red  Elephant, 
Pale  Peter's  place,  and  there  expeditiously,  but  still 
gravely,  abandoned.  No  unseemly  wrangle — 
not  so  much  as  an  officious  whisper — disturbed 
the  propriety  of  the  arrival  and  the  sunlit  quiet 
of  the  time.  Whatever  uncertainty — whatever 
difference  of  opinion — may  have  existed  in  re- 
spect to  the  ceremonial  progress  of  the  extra- 
ordinary affair  in  hand,  there  was  no  doubt 
about  what  was  immediately  desirable  and 
proper  in  the  circumstances.  The  movement  of 
Plain  Tom  Hitch  and  Gingerbread  Jenkins,  and 
of  the  prospective  mourners,  who  had  sat  with 
the  corpse  or  straggled  behind  all  the  way  from 
Bottle  River,  was  silent,  simultaneous  and  in  the 
same  direction.  They  tiptoed  into  Pale  Peter's 
bar ;  the  swing  shutters  closed  behind  them, 

28 


The    MAN   FROM   BOTTLE    RIYER       29 

with  a  subdued  and  melancholy  creaking,  and 
the  high-street  of  Swamp's  End  was  once  more 
deserted,  except  for  the  tote-wagon  and  its  in- 
different occupant. 

"  What'll  it  be?"  Plain  Tom  Hitch  and  Gin- 
gerbread Jenkins  whispered  simultaneously. 

"  A  liT  licker." 

The  sigh  ran  down  the  solemn  line : 

"AliT  licker." 

"  The  same." 

"  A  liT  gin— fer  me." 

Gray  Billy  Batch,  under  the  gray  blanket  out- 
side, was  left  to  his  own  devices ;  but  he  was  not 
chagrined,  you  may  be  sure,  by  this  exclusion 
from  the  amenities  of  Swamp's  End.  Nor  was 
his  presence  beyond  the  threshold  of  Pale  Peter's 
bar  forgotten.  Plain  Tom  Hitch  halted  his  first 
glass  midway — and  nothing  but  the  gravest  con- 
cern could  have  moved  Tom  Hitch  to  such 
amazing  restraint — Plain  Tom  Hitch  halted  his 
first  aromatic  glass  midway  to  inquire  concern- 
ing the  disposition  and  entertainment  of  "  the 
only  survivin'  re-lation"  of  the  gray  blanket; 
but  having  been  assured  by  Gingerbread  Jen- 
kins, who  had  assumed  charge  of  the  melancholy 
affair,  that  in  the  event  of  her  failure  to  appear 
unaided  she  would  be  sought  by  a  deputation 
and  escorted  with  every  courtesy  to  the  tail  of 
the  tote-wagon,  he  paused  no  longer,  but  swal- 
lowed his  liquor  with  funereal  satisfaction. 


30        The   MAN   FROM   BOTTLE   RlfER 

"Jus*  as  you  say,  Gingerbread,"  he  assented, 
dubiously.  "It's  your  funerlal.  You  got  it 
up." 

"  Eh  ?  "  Gingerbread  inquired,  sensing  doubt. 
"I  what?" 

"  You  got  it  up,"  Tom  Hitch  replied  ;  "  but  I 
wisht  I  knowed,"  he  added  solemnly,  "  where  you 
was  goin'  t'  put  your  cant-hooks  on  them  Scrip- 
tures." 

"What  Scriptures?" 

"  Holy  Scriptures,"  said  Plain  Tom  Hitch. 

Gingerbread  Jenkins  created  a  diversion  by 
inquiring,  in  a  general  way,  "  What'll  you  have, 
boys?" 

The  response  was  unanimous : 

"  A  liT  o'  the  same,  Charlie." 

"  I  don't  want  t'  make  no  trouble,  nor  I  don't 
want  t'  do  no  buttin'  in,"  Tom  Hitch  went  on,  at 
the  conclusion  of  this  grave  ceremony  ;  "  but  I'm 
told  that  they're  usually  used" 

"What's  used?" 

"  Holy  Scriptures,"  said  Plain  Tom  Hitch. 

"  You  jus'  leave  all  that  t'  me,  Tom  Hitch," 
Gingerbread  Jenkins  replied,  with  a  display  of 
resentment  to  conceal  a  second  shock  of  uneasi- 
ness. "If  we  got  t'  have  the  Holy  Scriptures  for 
this  here  funeerial,  we'll  have  'em,  an'  that's  all 
there  is  to  it." 

"Jus'  as  you  say,  Gingerbread,"  Tom  Hitch 
assented,  with  a  doubtful  wag ;  "  but  don't  you 


The    MAN   FROM   BOTTLE   RIVER.       )i 

go  an'  forget  that  you  got  this  thing  up  your- 
self." 

"  I  ain't  hedgin'  on  it,  Tom,"  Gingerbread  pro- 
tested. "  I  did  get  it  up." 

"  Got  a  parson  ?  " 

"Well,  no,  Tom,"  Gingerbread  admitted; 
"  not  yet.  I  ain't  picked  no  parson  yet." 

"  Got  a  hearse?" 

"Not  yet,"  said  Gingerbread  Jenkins;  "but 
I'm  allowin'  t'  have  a  hearse." 

"  Got  a  coffin  ?  " 

Gingerbread  shook  his  head. 

"  Got  a  grave  ?  " 

"  I  ain't  a-te«-ded  t'  all  them  things,"  Ginger- 
bread Jenkins  exploded,  goaded  to  impatience. 
"  I  ain't  got  my  grave  dug.  Gimme  time,  can't 
you  ?  I  jus'  stopped  in  here  for  a  li'F  licker." 

"Jus'  as  you  say,  Gingerbread,"  said  Tom 
Hitch,  placidly.  "  You  got  it  up ;  it's  your 
funerlal." 

There  was  a  vast  uncertainty  in  respect  to 
everything  connected  with  the  large-looming 
event,  not  only  in  the  flustered  mind  of  poor 
Gingerbread  Jenkins,  who  was  presently  ap- 
palled by  the  magnitude  his  simple  project  had 
begun  to  assume,  but  in  the  expectation  of  the 
men  whom  the  Cant-hook  and  Bottle  River  tote- 
roads  poured  into  the  clearing,  and  whom  the 
drowsy  street  of  Swamp's  End,  immediately,  and 


32       The    MAN   FROM   BOTTLE   RlfER 

without  quite  waking  up,  delivered  to  the  thirty- 
two  saloons.  Word  had  gone  abroad  in  the  woods 
— word  of  an  occasion — of  some  mysterious  de- 
mand for  a  celebration.  The  men  of  the  Cant-hook 
and  Bottle  River — and  a  smattering  of  lusty  fel- 
lows of  the  Yellow  Tail — had  drawn  their  wages 
and  come  precipitately  to  town.  There  was 
the  vaguest  information  abroad,  however,  con- 
cerning the  occasion  ;  and  when,  in  the  thirty-two 
saloons,  it  was  made  known  that  honour  was  to 
be  done  the  gray  blanket  in  the  Bottle  River  tote- 
wagon,  in  ease  of  Pattie  Batch's  grief,  the  project 
was  riotously  approved  and  so  thoroughly  ini- 
tiated that  even  the  thirty-two  proprietors  found 
nothing  to  complain  of.  The  clink  of  glasses 
and  the  silvery  rattle  of  coin  answered  well 
enough  for  the  requiem  bell — well  enough,  at 
any  rate,  to  content  Gray  Billy  Batch,  lying 
quietly  under  the  gray  blanket  in  the  tote-wagon. 

But  — 

"Who  got  it  up?" 

44  When's  he  goin'  t'  pull  it  off  ?  " 

" How's  he  goin'  t'  pull  it  off?" 

How  was  it  to  be  pulled  off  ?  That,  indeed, 
was  the  problem,  with  which  Swamp's  End,  in 
view  of  its  limitations,  must  instantly  grapple, 
the  issue  of  that  gigantic  struggle  being  in  gravest 
doubt.  Swamp's  End,  you  see,  had  never  had  a 
parson,  had  never  known  a  parson,  and  wouldn't 
have  recognized  one,  you  may  be  sure,  had  the 


The   MAN   FROM  BOTTLE   RIYER      33 

clouds  opened  and  providentially  dropped  a  par- 
son excellently  competent  in  respect  to  public  oc- 
casions of  this  sort.  Swamp's  End  was  com- 
pletely benighted  :  Swamp's  End  had  hitherto 
had  no  "  call "  for  the  ministrations  of  a  parson. 
Nor  had  Swamp's  End  a  coffin  to  mitigate  its  in- 
decency, nor  a  shroud,  nor  a  hearse :  the  obse- 
quies which  it  had  hitherto  fallen  to  the  lot  of 
Swamp's  End  to  celebrate  had  been  for  the  most 
part  performed  in  the  woods,  without  ostenta- 
tion, green  boughs  for  coffin,  the  darkness  of  the 
grave  shroud  enough,  the  wind  in  the  pines  a 
choir  unequalled,  the  solemnity  of  the  great 
woods  a  sufficient  sermon.  Swamp's  End,  in- 
deed, had  no  graveyard :  nothing  but  an  avoided 
slope,  near  by  a  shuttered  house  on  the  edge  of 
town,  where  three  nameless  women  were  buried, 
these  sunken  mounds,  with  one  small  cherished 
grave,  asserting  jealous  ownership  of  the  green 
and  flowery  spot. 

"  And  no  grave  dug !  "  Tom  Hitch  marvelled 
at  Pale  Peter's  bar. 

" Not  yet"  said  Gingerbread  Jenkins.  "  I 
ain't  had  no  time  t'  dig  no  grave." 

"  Have  you  chose  a  cem-a-tary  ?  " 

"  You  le'  me  alone,  can't  you  ?  "  Gingerbread 
Jenkins  complained.  "  I'll  get  my  cem-a-tary,  all 
right ! " 

"  Jus'  as  you  say,  Gingerbread." 

Gingerbread  growled. 


34       The   MAN  FROM  BOTTLE   R1YER 

"  You  started  this  here  little  thing,"  Tom  Hitch 
went  on,  as  he  crooked  his  ringer  for  Charlie  the 
Infidel ;  "  but  I  want  to  warn  you  that  there's 
a  hundred  men  an'  eighteen  hundred  dollars 
a-comin'  t'  this  here  funerlal,  an'  there  didn't 
ought  t'  be  no  hitch  t'  disappoint  the  boys." 

With  the  timely  assistance  of  Charlie  the  In- 
fidel, they  sought  new  light  upon  the  situation, 
but  found,  unhappily,  only  a  deeper  bewilder- 
ment. And  as  for  John  Fairmeadow,  while  the 
cloud  of  concern  thickened  about  Gingerbread 
Jenkins'  head,  why — John  Fairmeadow,  on  the 
trail  from  Elegant  Corners,  was  drawing  nearer 
the  cle  .ing  of  Swamp's  End,  and  would  pres- 
ently emerge  from  the  woods. 


IV 
A    PASTORAL    CALL 

PATTIE  BATCH  came  to  the  funeral  unat- 
tended. In  fact,  she  was  early.  A  child- 
like little  heart,  she  was,  indeed — a  tender 
little  flower  o'  the  woods,  forever  blithesome,  in 
the  sun  and  breezes  of  the  world,  until  Rattle 
Water  had  intervened — and  she  was  now  all  in 
a  confusion  of  bitterest  grief  and  dread  and  flut- 
tering expectation.  Except  for  the  tote-wagon 
and  the  stolid  horses,  the  street  was  empty ; 
there  was  nobody  to  observe  her  shy  arrival — 
nobody  to  be  moved  by  the  mourning  garment 
she  had  accomplished  from  her  dead  mother's 
threadbare  black  gown  and  now  wore  with  a 
modestly  appealing  little  strut.  It  was  a  gro- 
tesque fashion,  no  doubt :  she  resembled,  per- 
haps, nothing  so  nearly  as  a  child  masquerading 
in  grown-up  array.  But  she  was  all  innocent 
of  the  modes;  the  limp  black  skirt  trailed  the 
ground  for  the  first  time  in  her  experience,  and 
she  was  conscious  of  having  emerged  into  the 
world,  upon  her  own  resources,  wherein  she  must 
bear  herself  with  courage  and  resolution,  playing 
the  part  of  a  little  man  in  every  fortune. 
"  I  got  t'  be  a  little  man  !  " 
35 


}6  A    PASTORAL    CALL 

Pattie  Batch  was  instantly  aware,  of  course,  of 
the  significance  of  the  tote-wagon  and  the  gray 
blanket. 

"  Hello,  pop  !  "  she  whispered. 

Gray  Billy  Batch  was  indifferent  to  the  greet- 
ing. 

"  Hello,  pop  1  " 

Pattie  wept,  in  an  overwhelming  agony  of 
grief,  as  she  laid  a  cluster  of  wild-flowers  on  the 
blanket ;  and  she  wept,  too,  as  she  straightened 
the  disordered  folds  to  ease  the  rest  of  the  form 
beneath,  as  she  had  done  many  a  time,  in  other 
circumstances,  when  Billy  Batch  had  come  home 
from  town. 

"  Hello,  pop  1 " 

No  answer. 

"Pop!     Oh,  pop  1" 

Pattie  wept  again;  and  snuffling  still — and 
with  a  sob  and  a  catch  of  the  breath — she  rear- 
ranged the  flowers,  having  conceived  a  more 
lovely  effect,  and  once  more  smoothed  the 
blanket,  for  which  she  had  no  thanks,  at  all : 
whereupon  she  moved  away.  There  was  a  great 
stir  and  talk  in  the  barrooms  near  by.  It  indi- 
cated a  long  waiting.  She  dried  her  eyes  with 
a  sleeve  of  the  black  gown,  and  sighed  a  great 
deal,  and  blew  her  little  red  nose,  and  choked 
back  her  sobs  ;  and,  having  long  ago  learned  the 
part  a  woman  must  play  at  such  convivial  times, 
she  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  plank  sidewalk 


A    PASTORAL    CALL  37 

in  front  of  Pale  Peter's  place,  her  little  feet  swing- 
ing, and  began  patiently  to  await  the  conve- 
nience of  the  men  within. 

"  I  got  t'  be  a  little  man,  by  ginger ! "  thought 
she. 

She  would  if  she  could. 

When  big,  bellicose  John  Fairmeadow,  in  a 
lather  of  exertion,  came  striding  down  the  peace- 
ful street,  bound  for  the  Big  Rapids  trail,  she 
still  sat,  in  a  mist  of  grief,  swinging  her  little 
feet  from  Pale  Peter's  sidewalk.  A  quaint,  ap- 
pealing, shy  little  figure,  indeed,  she  was,  with 
downcast  gray  eyes,  but  rosy-cheeked,  withal,  and 
dimpled,  too,  notwithstanding  the  gray  blanket, 
and  infinitely  wistful  in  the  summer  sunshine. 
She  was  in  sorrow,  of  course ;  not  the  most  per- 
sistent of  dimples,  not  gray -eyed  twinkles  of  the 
most  stout-hearted  description,  could  conceal  her 
woe,  nor  mitigate  her  appearance  of  desolation. 
But  she  did  smile :  once  in  a  while,  looking  up 
from  her  little  toes,  she  smiled,  having  with  all 
her  might  summoned  the  courage  with  which  to 
give  to  her  woeful  features  the  twist  of  a  grimace. 
She  was  in  the  way,  you  see,  of  patching  up  her 
broken  heart,  after  the  admonition  of  Gray  Billy 
Batch  to  be  a  little  man.  And  she  was  in  the 
thick  of  a  desperate  effort — and  was  determined 
to  achieve  her  purpose — and  had  almost  man- 
aged the  last  contortion  of  a  courageous  little 


38  A    PASTORAL    CALL 

grin — when  John  Fairmeadow,  striding  down, 
came  abreast  of  the  abandoned  tote-wagon  and 
caught  sight  of  the  queer  little  figure  in  black 
on  the  sidewalk  beyond.  It  was  impossible  to 
proceed  :  John  Fairmeadow  involuntarily  paused 
to  stare ;  and  his  stare  instantly  exposed  him  to 
a  gray-eyed  flash,  which  immensely  amused  him, 
it  was  so  frank,  so  wistful,  so  sad,  so  curious,  so 
appealing  and  so  glorious. 

"  How  d'ye  do  ?  "  said  John  Fairmeadow. 

A  gracious  inclination  failed  to  encourage  him  ; 
and  he  passed  on — but  with  twinkling  backward 
glances — towards  the  mouth  of  the  Big  Rapids 
trail,  wherein,  in  a  moment,  after  a  rough  stride 
or  two,  he  would  have  vanished  in  the  silence 
and  shadows  of  the  forest,  forever  lost  to  Swamp's 
End,  had  not  the  providential  dog  fight  sum- 
moned him  back. 

It  was  the  dog  fight,  too,  that  intruded  upon 
Pattie  Batch's  grieving  vigil  beside  the  tote- 
wagon  and  the  gray  blanket.  It  came  in  a 
growling,  roaring,  blaspheming  rush  from  Pale 
Peter's  bar.  The  blessed  calm  of  day  fled  in 
shocked  alarm  before  it.  It  startled  the  stolid 
black  horses ;  it  shook  the  tote-wagon's  unheed- 
ing passenger.  It  flooded  the  sidewalk  and 
overflowed  on  the  dusty  street.  It  drew  a  hurry- 
ing, swearing,  howling  contribution  of  sportive 
spectators  from  each  of  the  thirty-two  saloons  to 


A    PASTORAL    CALL  39 

complete  a  brawling  circle.  It  distracted  the 
citizens  of  Swamp's  End  and  the  visitors  from  the 
woods  from  their  accustomed  employments  at  the 
Swamp's  End  bars  ;  and  eventually  it  introduced 
John  Fairmeadow  and  Providence  to  the  excited 
community.  A  worthy  dog  fight.  Pale  Peter's 
bulldog  was  concerned,  being  the  aggrieved 
party  to  the  dispute ;  and  the  other  dog,  the  ag- 
gressor, was  Billy  the  Beast  from  the  Cant-hook 
cutting,  a  surly  lumber-jack,  who,  being  at  the 
same  time  drunk,  savage  and  hungry,  had  seized 
upon  the  bulldog's  bone,  in  expectation  of 
gnawing  it  himself.  It  was  a  fight  to  be  remem- 
bered, too:  the  growls  of  man  and  beast,  the 
dusty,  yelping  scramble  in  the  street,  the  howls 
of  the  spectators,  the  blood  and  snapping,  and 
the  indecent  issue,  wherein  Billy  the  Beast  from 
the  Cant-hook  cutting  sent  the  bulldog  yelping 
to  cover  with  a  broken  rib,  and  himself,  stagger- 
ing out  of  sight,  with  lacerated  hands,  gnawed 
at  the  bone  as  he  went. 

When  the  joyous  excitement  had  somewhat 
subsided,  John  Fairmeadow,  now  returned  from 
the  Big  Rapids  trail,  laid  off  his  pack. 

"  Boys,"  said  he,  "  I'm  looking  for  the  worst 
town  this  side  of  hell.  Have  I  got  there  ?  " 

"You're  what!"  Gingerbread  Jenkins  ejacu- 
lated. 

"I'm  looking,"  John  Fairmeadow  drawled, 
"  for  the  worst  town  this  side  of  hell.  Is  this  it  ?  " 


40  A    PASTORAL    CALL 

"  Swamp's  End,  my  friend,"  said  Gingerbread 
Jenkins,  gravely,  "  is  your  station." 

The  crowd  gave  assent. 

"  Quite  sure  ? "  John  Fairmeadow  pleasantly 
inquired. 

"  My  friend,"  Gingerbread  Jenkins  replied, 
"  I  could  prove  at  least  that  much  in  favour  o' 
this  here  town." 

John  Fairmeadow  nodded  approvingly. 

"When  I  come  t'  think  ca'mly  about  it,"  Gin- 
gerbread Jenkins  went  on,  "  I  don't  know  but 
that  this  town  beats  hell.  There's  many  a  man 
has  moved  from  here  t'  hell  with  the  idea  of  im- 
provin'  his  situation." 

Again  John  Fairmeadow  nodded. 

"An'  a  damned  sight  more  young  women," 
Gingerbread  Jenkins  continued,  "has  packed  up  in 
a  hurry,  lemme  tell  you,  an'  done  the  same  thing." 

"That's  all  right,  boys,"  said  John  Fair- 
meadow,  heartily.  "  I  like  the  town." 

It  was  Gingerbread's  turn  to  nod. 

"  I  like  it,"  Fairmeadow  repeated,  grimly. 
"  It's  just  the  kind  of  town  I'm  looking  for ;  and 
I'm  glad  I've  found  it.  It'sjtne,  boys.  I'm  de- 
lighted. It  seems  to  me,"  he  went  on,  "  that  a 
man  in  my  line  might  thrive  in  a  live  little  burg  like 
this.  If  you've  no  objection,  boys,  I'll  settle." 

There  was  a  pause. 

"  Friend,"  Gingerbread  Jenkins  observed,  in- 
imically,  "  I  don't  quite  place  you.' 


A    PASTORAL    CALL  41 

Fairmeadow  smiled  broadly.  "This  is  my 
first  visit  to  Swamp's  End,  sir,"  said  he,  bowing 
politely. 

Gingerbread  scratched  his  head. 

"  I  hope,"  Fairmeadow  proceeded,  glancing 
about  the  scowling  circle,  his  eyes  alight  with 
amusement,  "  some  day  to  be  better  acquainted 
with  all  you  gentlemen." 

"I  can't  place  you,"  Gingerbread  Jenkins 
complained,  advancing. 

"  My  name's  Fairmeadow." 

"Yes,"  Gingerbread  drawled;  "but  I  can't 
jus'  make  out  what  you're/or." 

Fairmeadow  settled  himself  solidly. 

"You  see,  friend,"  Gingerbread  Jenkins  pa- 
tiently elucidated,  "  it  ain't  quite  plain  what  use 
you  could  be  put  to.  You  look  like  a  honest  an' 
self-respectin'  lady-fingered  bartender,"  he  added, 
gently,  "  but  you  might  be  a  horse-thief." 

Fairmeadow  bridled  a  little.  "  I  chance  to  be 
neither,"  said  he. 

"No?" 

"Neither." 

"  What  is  your  line  o'  business?" 

"  Line  ? "  Fairmeadow  replied,  with  a  broad 
grin.  "  Boys,  I'm  what  you  might  call  a  parson ! " 

"A— a— wh-o^a/?" 

"  Parson,  by  Jove ! " 

Gingerbread  Jenkins  implored,  ~  weakly,  "Do 
you  want  a  job  ?  " 


42  A    PASTORAL    CALL 

Fairmeadow  perceived  but  could  not  account 
for  a  sudden  stir  and  silence.  He  was  not,  how- 
ever, permitted  to  answer  the  question.  Plain 
Tom  Hitch  jerked  Gingerbread  Jenkins  away 
from  further  blundering. 

Well,  of  course,  with  this  disclosure  the 
affair  had  instantly  taken  a  new  aspect.  The 
crowd  withdrew  a  space,  leaving  John  Fair- 
meadow  alone  with  the  little  figure  in  the  quaint 
black  dress,  by  whom,  however,  he  was  not  ad- 
dressed. There  was  a  great  buzz  of  accusation, 
argument  and  persuasion  from  the  frowzy  crew 
near  by ;  and  John  Fairmeadow,  there  being 
nothing  else  to  do,  awaited  the  issue  of  this, 
mystified  but  patient  enough.  What  was  said 
to  Gingerbread  Jenkins,  at  that  crisis,  heaven 
knows !  That  he  was  accused  of  having  made 
it  impossible  for  any  individual  of  pious  inclina- 
tion to  accept  employment  in  that  neighbourhood 
may  go  without  saying.  A  lady-fingered  bar- 
tender— a  horse-thief !  Hard  enough,  too,  on 
poor  Gingerbread  Jenkins — himself  desperate  for 
a  parson  !  Presently,  however,  the  circle  formed 
again  about  John  Fairmeadow ;  and  Ginger- 
bread Jenkins  advanced,  again,  now  much  crest- 
fallen. 

"  I  guess  I  made  a  mistake,  parson,  an'  I 
'pologize,"  said  he.  "Are  you  lookin'  for  a 
job?" 


A    PASTORAL    CALL  43 

"  That's  just  what  I  am ! "  said  Fairmeadow. 

"  As  a  parson  ?  " 

"  That's  right,  boys  ! " 

"  Would  you  mind,"  Gingerbread  pursued, 
apologetically,  "  if  I  was  t'  ask  you  how  you  was 
on  funeerials  ?  " 

The  crowd  attended. 

"  I  bury,"  Fairmeadow  replied,  smiling,  all 
unaware  of  the  proximity  of  the  gray  blanket, 
"  with  neatness  and  despatch." 

"  Do  it  make  any  difference  t'  you,"  Ginger- 
bread anxiously  inquired,  "  which  landin'  a  man 
makes  ?  " 

"  Once  the  man  is  dead  ? " 

"Yes,"  Gingerbread  drawled ;  "  once  the  man's 
quite  dead." 

"  Not  in  the  least." 

"  An'  you're  lookin'  for  a  job  in  this  section  ?  " 

"  I  am." 

"  No  objection  t'  lumber-jacks  ?  " 

"  I  confess,"  Fairmeadow  answered,  grimly, 
"  to  a  slight  attraction." 

"  Got  the  Holy  Scriptures  on  you  ?  " 

"  I  have." 

"Handy?" 

Fairmeadow  produced  them  with  satisfaction. 

"  Boys,"  said  Gingerbread  promptly,  "  hold  up 
your  right  hands." 

Aloft  went  every  hand. 

"  Now,  parson,"  Gingerbread  went  on,  turning 


44  A    PASTORAL    CALL 

full  upon  Fairmeadow,  and  gravely,  too,  "  the 
truth,  the  whole  truth  an'  nothin'  but  the 
truth " 

The  rest,  it  seemed,  had  been  forgotten. 

"Anyhow,"  Gingerbread  burst  out,  "so  help 
me  God,  you're  elected  /  " 

Fairmeadow  asked  no  question  whatsoever. 
The  sincerity  of  his  call,  indeed,  was  beyond 
question.  It  amazed  him ;  he  could  not  at  all 
account  for  it.  They  felt  the  need  of  him,  how- 
ever ;  and  he  promptly  took  hold  on  the  strange 
advantage.  The  situation  passed  into  his  con- 
trol in  a  way  to  make  the  hearts  of  these  simple 
men  jump.  He  stepped  quickly  to  the  centre  of 
the  circle — a  clean,  stalwart  young  fellow,  a  man, 
in  bearing,  of  the  great  proud  and  powerful 
world — and  lifted  his  hand. 

There  was  instant  silence. 

"  Boys,"  said  Fairmeadow,  looking  slowly 
roundabout  upon  the  circle  of  grave  and  gaping 
faces,  "  I  thank  you  for  the  call.  It  is  gratefully 
accepted.  In  so  far  as  God  gives  me  strength 
and  wisdom — in  so  far  as  He  helps  me  to  keep 
my  heart  pure,  my  purpose  uplifted,  my  love 
undivided — I  will  serve  both  you  and  Him  in 
these  His  woods.  So  help  me  Almighty  God ! 
Amen." 

This  was  the  call  and  installation  of  the  Rev- 
erend John  Fairmeadow. 


PICK    AND    SHOVEL 

PRESENTLY  informed  of  his  first  minis- 
terial office,  and  presented  to  the  object 
of  his  consoling  services,  John  Fair- 
meadow  said,  "  All  right,  boys  !  "  and  his  parish- 
ioners returned  to  the  saloons  with  a  relieved 
whoop,  in  which  the  concern  of  Gingerbread 
Jenkins  vanished.  The  parson,  you  see,  was 
"  on  the  job,"  and  it  was  purely  a  parson's  em- 
ployment ;  the  mere  mourners  might  indulge 
grief  without  any  haunting  sense  of  responsibility, 
and  at  once  began  to  do  so,  with  the  eighteen 
hundred  dollars.  John  Fairmeadow  was  pre- 
cipitately abandoned.  There  remained  the  gray 
blanket — there  remained  Dennie  the  Hump, 
Pale  Peter's  sweeper — there  remained  the  quaint, 
shy  little  figure  in  black,  now  blushing  and  dry- 
eyed,  who  presented  her  hand,  with  a  grand  air 
of  fashion,  and  remarked  that  she  was  "  pleased 
to  make"  John  Fairmeadow's  acquaintance. 
The  gray  blanket  expressed  no  interest  whatso- 
ever in  the  affair  ;  but  Dennie  the  Hump  volun- 
teered to  contrive  a  coffin  of  the  shreds  of 
packing-boxes,  which,  said  he,  if  unsightly  to 
the  finical  eye,  would  yet  hold  together  until  it 

45 


46  PICK  AND   SHOYEL 

should  repose  where  no  further  disturbance  could 
endanger  it.  This  generous  assistance  John 
Fairmeadow  promptly  accepted,  promising  to 
look  in  upon  the  job,  and  complete  it,  and 
reverently  fulfill  its  purpose,  when  he  had 
finished  with  the  pick  and  shovel.  The  tote- 
wagon  was  then  driven  to  Pale  Peter's  barn ; 
and  there  Dennie  the  Hump  began  industriously 
to  ply  his  hammer  and  saw,  in  delight  with  his 
useful  and  conspicuous  occupation. 

Presently  John  Fairmeadow  had  obtained  the 
implements  required  by  this  ministerial  exigency. 
"  Now,  my  dear,"  said  he,  resolutely,  to  Pattie 
Batch,  "  where  shall  we  go  ?  " 

Pattie  Batch  stared  horrified  at  the  pick  and 
shovel. 

"  You  know  what  I  mean,  don't  you  ? "  Fair- 
meadow  asked. 

"  There  isn't  no  cem-e-tree,"  Pattie  Batch  re- 
plied. 

"Choose,  then,"  said  Fairmeadow,  "some 
pleasant  place." 

"There's  a  place  for  graves,"  Pattie  volun- 
teered, with  interest. 

Fairmeadow  shouldered  his  pick  and  shovel. 
"  The  very  spot  1 "  said  he. 

"There  isn't  many  graves,  neither,"  Pattie 
went  on  ;  "  there's  jus'  a  few." 

Fairmeadow  reflected  sadly  that  one  would 
presently  be  added  to  the  number. 


PICK  AND   SHOYEL  47 

"  Jus'  some  girls,"  Pattie  sighed. 

Fairmeadow  was  not  attending;  he  heard  — 
but,  unused  to  the  ways  of  Swamp's  End,  did  not 
comprehend.  He  was  engaged  in  a  tenderly 
sympathetic  consideration  of  the  odd  little  figure 
trotting  beside  him  with  awkwardly  lifted  skirt. 

"  You  know,"  Pattie  Batch  continued,  in  the 
way  of  the  wise  to  the  wise. 

It  occurred  to  Fairmeadow  that  the  child  was 
complaining  of  the  graveyard. 

"  No,  no  !  "  Pattie  cried. 

Fairmeadow  wondered  at  her  vehemence. 

"  No,  no  !  "  she  repeated,  in  a  passion  of  de- 
termination. "  I  want  pop  buried  there  !  " 

"Of  course,  you  do,"  Fairmeadow  soothed 
her. 

"  Near  —  me,"  she  whispered. 

"  You  mustn't  think  of  that,  my  dear,"  Fair- 
meadow  urged.  "  You're  so  young  —  to  think 
of  that." 


"  Oh,  no  ;  not  yet,  surely." 

"  Yes,  I  have,"  Pattie  replied  ;  "  it's  got  t'  be 
thought  of  —  now  that  pop's  dead.  I  got  t'  be  a 
HT  man." 

The  graveyard  lay  in  sunshine,  a  little  breeze 
playing  softly  with  the  long  grass,  the  whole 
freshly  green  and  eager,  after  the  warm  rains, 
and  brilliantly  spread  with  flowers.  It  was  at 


48  PICK   AND    SHOYEL 

the  edge  of  the  clearing ;  the  forest  came  close  : 
Fairmeadow  could  peer  into  its  dim,  tangled  re- 
cesses, and  could  hear  the  chirp  and  twitter  and 
rustle  of  its  busy  little  living  things.  Gray  Billy 
Batch  had  been  preceded  in  the  eternal  occu- 
pancy of  this  serene  field.  There  were  four 
graves.  Three  were  unkempt  and  unloved — 
nameless,  forgotten,  fallen  in,  overgrown.  But 
one  small  mound  was  newly  trimmed ;  and 
wreaths  of  fresh-plucked  wild  blooms  lay  upon 
it,  smiling  to  the  blue  sky. 

"  That's  Mag's  HT  baby,"  Pattie  explained. 

"Mag's?"  Fairmeadow  absently  asked. 

"  Yep,"  Pattie  replied  ;  "  it's  been  dead  a  awful 
long  time." 

Fairmeadow  wondered  where  Gray  Billy  Batch 
might  most  comfortably  lie. 

"  Mag  loves  it  yet,"  said  Pattie  ;  "  an'  she  says 
she  always  will." 

Fairmeadow  struck  his  spade  into  the  ground. 

"  She  says,"  Pattie  concluded,  "  that  she  jus* 
simply  can't  help  it." 

While  Fairmeadow  laboured — and  until  the 
last  spading  of  cool  red  earth  was  cast  up — Pat- 
tie  Batch,  squatting  cross-legged  in  the  grass, 
and  much  pleased  with  her  companion,  chattered 
amiably,  between  periods  of  gentle  weeping. 
She  seemed  to  cling  to  this  companionship : 
there  was  no  one  else,  you  see,  and  there  would 
presently  be  no  one  at  all ;  and  she  was  enter- 


PICK   AND   SHOYEL  49 

taining,  of  course — as  well  as  one  could  be 
whose  heart  was  breaking — to  enlist  sympathy 
and  to  prolong  the  interval  of  relief  from  loneli- 
ness. She  would  be  alone,  soon  enough — alone 
in  the  cabin  at  the  edge  of  the  woods — quite 
alone — God  knew !  though  John  Fairmeadow 
was  not  aware  of  it.  And  the  little  thing,  dab- 
bing occasionally  at  her  misty  gray  eyes  with 
the  sleeve  of  her  mother's  gown,  chattered  away, 
to  chase  off  her  grief  and  the  besieging  expecta- 
tion of  being  alone.  Mag's  baby,  it  seemed,  had 
come  long  ago,  to  surprise  her;  and  Mag,  it 
seemed,  lived  in  the  shuttered  red  house  at  the 
foot  of  the  slope,  and  was  Pattie  Batch's  friend. 
What  would  Pattie  Batch  do,  now  that  her 
father  was  dead?  Pattie  Batch  didn't  know;  but 
Pattie  Batch  knew  what  she  could  do,  you  bet  1 
She  hadn't  made  up  her  mind — not  yet.  She 
would  think  it  over — by  and  by — after  the  fun'l, 
maybe.  She  was  not  afraid.  Oh,  my,  no !  And, 
anyhow,  Mag  was  her  friend. 

"  I  know,"  said  she,  shrewdly,  her  great  gray 
eyes  wide  in  innocent  regard  of  John  Fair- 
meadow,  "  what  /  can  do." 

The  grave  was  dug. 

"  Come,  child,"  said  Fairmeadow,  oppressed ; 
"  there  is  no  more  to  be  done  here." 

"  I  ain't  a  child,"  she  replied. 

"No?"  said  he,  absently. 

She  looked  up  shyly  through  her  long  lashes. 


50  PICK   AND   SHOVEL 

"I'm   almost   nearly  eighteen,"   said  she,  with 
satisfaction. 

Fairmeadow  had  not  attended  to  the  chatter 
of  Pattie  Batch.  But  Fairmeadow  is  not  to  be 
blamed  for  this.  Fairmeadow  was  not  used  to 
the  ways  of  Swamp's  End — not  aware  of  the 
teaching  of  its  accepted  customs — not  afraid  for 
its  innocents — not  remotely  acquainted  with  the 
deadly  perils  its  way  of  living  had  created  and 
clothed  with  an  aspect  of  security  and  propriety 
— not  yet  apprised  by  experience  of  the  nets 
which  avarice  had  spread  for  unknowing  youth. 
So  Fairmeadow  is  not  harshly  to  be  judged  for 
his  stupidity  :  Fairmeadow  had  been  preoccupied 
in  melancholy  musing  upon  this  death.  He  had 
brooded  sadly,  through  all  Pattie  Batch's  chatter- 
ing ;  and  he  had,  but  in  no  comprehending  way, 
considered  the  forsaken  little  chatterer,  whose 
words,  inconsequent  to  his  ear,  had  yet  been 
great  and  solemn  with  the  news  he  did  not  heed. 
Desolate  little  Pattie  Batch  I  Gray-eyed,  for- 
saken, quaint  little  Pattie  Batch !  Something 
must  be  done  for  the  child.  It  would  be  his 
first  ministerial  concern,  Fairmeadow  determined, 
to  inquire,  to  consider,  to  act  in  her  behalf. 
After  the  funeral,  perhaps :  or  to-morrow.  To- 
morrow, of  course :  early  to-morrow,  so  that  her 
desolation  in  this  inimical  world  might  be  eased 
as  soon  as  might  be.  To-morrow :  to-morrow, 
of  course,  would  do.  For  Fairmeadow,  you  see, 


PICK   AND   SHOVEL  51 

was  new  to  Swamp's  End,  and  was  not  at  all 
aware,  as  yet,  that  instant  action  was  necessary 
in  some  cases.  But  he  was  to  learn  it. 

"  There's  jus'  one  thing,"  Pattie  declared,  with 
emphasis,  when  they  came  abreast  of  the  first 
wretched  shack  of  the  town. 

Fairmeadow  yielded  the  attention  demanded. 

"  Will  you  promise  f  " 

"  Maybe,"  Fairmeadow  indulged  her. 


Fairmeadow  nodded. 

"  Don't  you  have  Billy  the  Beast  for  no  pall- 
bearer," Pattie  declared,  her  little  teeth  savagely 
bared  ;  "  he  bit  pop's  ear  off." 

"  Good  Lord  !  "  John  Fairmeadow  ejaculated. 

It  was  a  fine  town  !  It  was  the  worst  town 
this  side  of  hell,  all  right  1  It  was  just  the  lively 
little  burg  that  John  Fairmeadow  had  been  look- 
ing for  ! 


VI 

SOWN  IN   DISHONOUR 

IT  was  a  distinguished  success — the  funeral 
of  Gray  Billy  Batch.  Swamp's  End  forever 
afterwards  regarded  it  as  having  been  worth 
eighteen  hundred  dollars ;  and  the  thirty-two 
proprietors  rubbed  their  white  hands  and  heartily 
concurred.  There  was  some  delay,  in  the  begin- 
ning :  Swamp's  End  was  taken  unaware  by  John 
Fairmeadow,  who  bustled  from  saloon  to  saloon, 
stuck  his  rosy  face  into  each  and  shouted,  "  All 
ready,  boys  1 "  After  this  pardonable  and 
quickly  resolved  confusion,  however,  the  affair 
sedately  progressed  from  Pale  Peter's  curb,  with 
a  thick  "  Get  up,  there ! "  from  Plain  Tom  Hitch, 
to  the  accustomed  rites,  performed  according  to 
the  forms  in  the  grassy  field  behind  the  shuttered 
red  house  at  the  edge  of  the  woods.  Little  Pat- 
tie  Batch  had  nothing  left  to  desire  in  respect  to 
it ;  the  hundred  mourners  from  Bottle  River, 
the  Cant-hook  and  the  Yellow  Tail  camps,  were 
abundantly  content  with  their  grave  share  in  the 
proceeding,  and  the  eighteen  hundred  dollars 
were  presently  in  a  fair  way  of  reposing  in  the 
cash-boxes  of  the  thirty-two  proprietors. 

52 


SOWN   IN   DISHONOUR  53 

It  is  true  that  the  long  procession,  going  two- 
and-two  behind  the  lumbering  tote-wagon,  and 
immediately  preceded  by  the  Reverend  John 
Fairmeadow,  with  a  black-clad  little  woman  on 
his  arm,  was  preternaturally  solemn  and  indulgent 
of  grief ;  it  is  true  that  the  selfsame  procession 
stumbled  in  rough  places  and  was  forever  stag- 
gering— true  that  it  paused,  now  and  again,  in 
twos  and  threes,  to  refresh  its  strength  and  mood 
— true  that  after  these  lapses  from  the  line  it 
found  new  lines  of  gravity  to  wear,  other  tears  to 
shed,  but  no  larger  certainty  of  poise.  Perhaps, 
in  the  polite  world  beyond  the  woods,  its  practices 
upon  this  occasion  may  discover  condemnation. 
God  knows !  But  the  world  of  Swamp's  End, 
accustomed  and  untutored,  knew  its  own  sin- 
cerity of  sympathy  with  the  black-clad  little 
woman  at  the  tail  of  the  tote-wagon,  and  con- 
tinued in  happy  satisfaction  with  its  funereal  be- 
haviour. 

And  there  was  a  parson,  with  an  indubitably 
ministerial  air  and  a  veritable  copy  of  the  Holy 
Scriptures — and  there  was  a  coffin,  exalted  on 
the  tote-wagon — and  upon  the  coffin  were  masses 
of  wild-flowers,  of  wondrous  fragrance  and  glory, 
gathered  by  Dennie  the  Hump.  It  was  all,  you 
see,  according  to  the  traditions :  nothing  what- 
ever was  omitted.  The  lifted  voice  was  heard, 
the  birds  twittered,  the  sky  was  blue,  the  wind 
flowed  over  the  pines,  and  cloud-shadow  and 


54  SOWN  IN  DISHONOUR 

sunshine  chased  each  other  over  the  world,  and 
the  long  grasses  waved  and  the  flowers  nodded 
their  heads,  all  uninterrupted  by  the  passing 
tragedy,  unheeding  of  it,  as  though  it  had  no 
meaning,  and  grief  no  substance,  just  as  they 
always  do,  in  spring  time,  when  the  dead  are  laid 
away. 

I  am  the  resurrection  and  the  life,  saith  the 
Lord :  he  that  believeth  in  Me,  though  he  were 
dead,  yet  shall  he  live  :  and  whosoever  liveth  and 
believeth  in  Me  shall  never  die.  .  .  .  We 
brought  nothing  into  this  world,  and  it  is  certain 
we  can  carry  nothing  out.  The  Lord  gave,  and 
the  Lord  hath  taken  away ;  blessed  be  the  name 
of  the  Lord.  .  .  .  Now  is  Christ  risen  from 
the  dead,  and  become  the  flrst-fruits  of  them  that 
slept.  For  since  by  man  came  death,  by  man  came 
also  the  resurrection  of  the  dead.  .  .  .  It  is 
sown  in  corruption  ;  it  is  raised  in  incorruption  : 
it  is  sown  in  dishonour ;  it  is  raised  in  glory :  it 
is  sown  in  weakness  ;  it  is  raised  in  power  :  it  is 
sown  a  natural  body ;  it  is  raised  a  spiritual 
body.  .  .  .  Man  that  is  born  of  a  woman  hath 
but  a  short  time  to  live,  and  is  full  of  misery.  He 
cometh  up,  and  is  cut  down,  like  a  flower ;  he  fleeth 
as  it  were  a  shadow,  and  never  continueth  in  one 
stay.  .  .  .  Earth  to  earth,  ashes  to  ashes,  dust 
to  dust.  I  heard  a  voice  from  heaven 

saying  unto  me,  Write,  From  henceforth  blessed 


SOWN   IN   DISHONOUR  55 

are  the  dead  who  die  in  the  Lord :  even  so  saith 
the  Spirit ;  for  they  rest  from  their  labours.    .    .    . 

Dust  to  dust,  ashes  to  ashes — and  once  more 
the  scattered  earth  rattled  its  last  message  and 
decree.  It  was  all  according  to  the  forms,  you 
see.  Nothing  was  omitted  by  John  Fairmeadow : 
nothing  was  left  to  desire.  And  Swamp's  End 
was  correspondingly  gratified,  and  inspired,  as 
well,  to  celebrate  the  departure  of  Gray  Billy 
Batch  and  the  advent  of  its  own  and  established 
parson,  for  which  event  it  had  a  lusty  will,  a  sound 
constitution,  and  eighteen  hundred  dollars.  No 
sooner  had  the  exhausted  procession  returned 
to  more  congenial  surroundings  than  the  eight- 
een hundred  dollars  began  a  clinking  rush  over 
the  thirty-two  bars. 

Pattie  Batch  went  home  alone  to  the  shack 
which  Gray  Billy  Batch  had  knocked  together  to 
house  his  treasure ;  but  she  did  not  turn  her  face 
towards  the  edge  of  the  woods  until  she  had 
watched  the  last  man  go  to  his  companionable 
diversion.  She  idled  in  the  street :  she  was 
lonely ;  she  clung  even  to  the  sight  of  these  other 
folk.  It  was  coming,  now,  late  in  the  afternoon. 
The  breeze  had  fallen ;  the  sun  was  sinking, 
wrapped  in  glorious  garments,  to  its  bed  in  the 
pines.  Pattie  Batch,  arrived  in  the  dooryard  of 
the  shack,  wished,  but  in  no  complaining  way, 


56  SOWN  IN   DISHONOUR 

that  she  might  have  continued  in  the  companion- 
ship of  the  men  who  had  gone  together  to  the 
saloons,  and  were  at  least  not  alone. 

But,  summoning  a  smile  — 

"  I  got  t'  be  a  little  man,"  occurred  to  her. 

It  was  lonely  at  home ;  the  cabin  was  isolated, 
and  still,  and  desolately  vacant.  Pattie  Batch 
stared  hopelessly  around.  It  was  hard,  after  all, 
to  remember  to  smile.  She  sighed  ;  she  wished 
— a  moment  of  agonizing  dread — that  she  were  a 
man. 

But,  compelling  a  brave  smile  — 

"  I  got  t'  be  a  little  man,"  she  remembered. 

Presently,  having  gathered  some  clothing  into 
a  bundle,  and  having  possessed  herself  of  a  few 
simple  keepsakes  of  her  father's  love,  she  took  the 
road  for  Swamp's  End.  She  did  not  turn  to  look 
upon  all  that  she  had  left  behind ;  she  fancied, 
little  innocent  one !  that  she  would  soon  come 
back  again,  for  a  little,  not  knowing,  at  all,  that 
there  was  no  returning  upon  the  road  her  little 
feet  now  travelled. 

"I  got  t'  be  a  little  man." 

She  went  by  Pale  Peter's  place  ;  she  passed  the 
roaring  saloons,  and  came,  by  and  by,  to  the 
edge  of  town.  Here  she  dawdled.  The  path 
was  sweet  with  grass  and  flowers.  She  plucked 
an  overflowing  armful  of  blossoms  ;  she  sat  down 
by  the  wayside,  like  a  child,  and  wove  of  these 
fragrant  jewels  a  chaplet  for  her  young  brow. 


SOWN   IN   DISHONOUR  57 

She  made  a  wreath  for  her  shoulders,  she  fash- 
ioned a  pendant  of  white  for  her  bosom,  she  en- 
circled her  wrists. 

The  dusk  fell — warm  and  brooding. 

"  I  got  t'  be  a  little  man !  "  thought  she. 

She  sighed  a  little — she  sang  a  little — she  cried 
a  little.  Then  all  at  once  she  jumped  up ;  and 
she  wiped  her  tears  away  with  the  sleeve  of  her 
dead  mother's  gown,  with  resolute  little  rubs, 
and  composed  her  wan  face,  and  set  her  lips,  and 
brushed  her  little  nose  into  a  more  presentable 
condition,  and  smoothed  her  skirt.  She  turned, 
presently,  towards  the  grim,  bedraggled,  shame- 
less red  house,  her  eyes  shining  innocently  in 
rising  expectation  of  delight ;  and  she  went  for- 
ward with  kindling  courage,  her  head  high,  like 
one  going  into  the  world,  in  the  shining  hope  of 
youth,  for  the  first  time  to  taste  of  life. 

She  knocked. 

"  My  child !  "  John  Fairmeadow  called  from  the 
twilight. 

Pattie  knocked  again. 

"  Child ! " 

She  turned  in  doubt. 

"  Child ! "  Fairmeadow  besought  her,  his 
voice  rising  in  quick  alarm.  "Wait  a  mo- 
ment ! " 

The  door  opened. 

"  Wait— oh,  wait ! " 

Nobody  appeared  in  the  doorway.     There  was 


58  SOWN   IN   DISHONOUR 

no  voice  of  invitation.  It  was  all  dark  within. 
Pattie  advanced  a  step.  She  was  restrained, 
then,  by  John  Fairmeadow's  hand. 

"  Come ! "  he  entreated. 

She  hesitated. 

"  Come  with  me  ! "  he  commanded. 

"  I'm  so  pleased  you  come,  sir,"  poor  little 
Pattie  Batch  sobbed.  "  I  was  simply  so  lonely  I 
couldn't  stand  it." 

The  door  was  softly  closed  upon  the  little 
thing's  departure ;  and  Pattie's  friend,  Mag,  in 
the  shadows  within,  came  as  near  to  sighing 
"  Thank  God  ! "  as  she  very  well  dared. 

And  when  big  John  Fairmeadow  had  stowed 
poor  little  Pattie  Batch  away  in  Gray  Billy  Batch's 
abandoned  cabin  at  the  edge  of  the  woods — and 
when  he  had  sustained  the  little  thing  with 
promises  of  good-will  and  companionship — and 
when  he  had  listened  with  a  heart  acquainted  with 
pain  and  the  need  of  pity  to  this  small  story  of 
daughterly  love  and  desolation — and  when  he 
had  learned  anew  the  cruel  power  of  Death  and 
the  despair  its  ancient  Mystery  unfailingly  works 
in  the  world — and  when  dear  little  Pattie  Batch 
had  cried  a  little,  and  had  smiled  a  little  in  the 
dusk,  and  had  courageously  dabbed  at  her  wet 
gray  eyes  with  the  sleeve  of  her  mother's  black 
gown,  and  had  vowed,  with  her  little  white  teeth 
exposed,  to  be  a  little  man,  whatever  hap- 


SOWN  IN   DISHONOUR  59 

pened,  and  had  wiped  her  little  red  nose,  and 
snuffled,  and  ejaculated,  "  Oh,  shoot  it,  any- 
how 1 " — and  when,  calling  every  ounce  and  inch 
of  all  the  sweet  bravery  she  possessed,  or  could 
by  any  stretch  of  the  imagination  pretend  that 
she  possessed,  to  aid  her  in  this  extremity,  she 
had  cheered  up,  in  a  way  to  win  the  astonished 
admiration  of  all  mankind — when  all  this  had 
come  to  pass  in  the  tender  dusk  at  the  edge  of 
the  woods — and  when  John  Fairmeadow  had 
promised  to  come  back  in  the  morning — and 
when  the  downcast  young  fellow  had  come  to 
the  Bottle  River  trail  to  Swamp's  End  and  had 
distracted  his  mind  from  the  disconsolate  state  of 
Pattie  Batch  to  the  grim  business  lying  ahead  in 
Pale  Peter's  barroom  at  Swamp's  End — John 
Fairmeadow  heard  his  name  wanly  called. 

"  Hey,  there  I " 

"  Hello ! "  Fairmeadow  responded. 

"  What — time — d'  you — get — up  ? ' ' 

"  What— time — d'  you  f  " 

"  I'm— up— at— five." 

"  Good  Heavens  1 "  Fairmeadow  ejaculated, 
under  his  breath ;  but  he  shouted,  like  a  man, 
"All  right,  Pattie!  I'll  be  out  to  breakfast!" 
and  then  went  his  way  to  man's  business  in 
town,  determined  to  work  a  solution  of  Pattie 
Batch's  hard  problem,  if  he  accomplished  noth- 
ing else  at  Swamp's  End. 


VII 
PALE  PETER'S  GAME 

WHEN  John  Fairmeadow  got  back  to 
Swamp's  End  from  Pattie  Batch's 
lonely  cabin  at  the  edge  of  the  woods, 
the  inebriated  little  town  seemed  to  have  gone 
to  bed  for  the  night.  It  was  dark :  the  long, 
disjointed,  bedraggled  street  was  deserted.  But 
the  town  had  not  gone  to  bed.  Not  by  any 
means !  The  town  was  still  celebrating  the 
obsequies  of  Gray  Billy  Batch  ;  and  inasmuch  as 
that  singular  function  had  been  a  gigantic  suc- 
cess, and  inasmuch  as  all  sense  of  responsibility 
concerning  it  had  vanished  with  the  return  from 
the  green  field  beyond  town,  and  inasmuch  as 
there  still  remained  a  goodly  portion  of  the 
eighteen  hundred  dollars,  the  town  was  heartily 
enjoying  itself.  Swamp's  End  was  indoors. 
The  saloons  were  crowded.  Indisputable  evi- 
dence of  hilarity  emerged  from  every  open  door. 
At  Pale  Peter's  Red  Elephant,  where  John  Fair- 
meadow  turned  in,  Charlie  the  Infidel  was  rushed 
beyond  the  power  even  of  his  quick  hands  and 
alert  mind  to  keep  up  with  the  demand  for  his 
services.  There  was  a  roaring  crowd  at  the  bar ; 
but  strewn  about  the  floor — and  now  and  again 

60 


PALE   PETER'S   GAME  61 

kicked  impatiently  out  of  the  way — there  lay  a 
dozen  or  more  lusty  fellows  whom  the  celebra- 
tion had  utterly  overcome.  Fairmeadow  was 
not  disgusted.  He  did  not  withdraw  in  horror  ; 
nor  did  he  weep  and  retire  to  pray.  As  a  mat- 
ter of  fact — it  may  be  hinted — John  Fairmeadow 
had  long  ago  become  inured  to  scenes  like 
this.  There  had  been  a  time,  moreover,  when — 
but  that  is  for  a  later  telling.  Fairmeadow,  un- 
observed in  the  long,  dim-lit  room,  now  went  to 
a  shadowy  corner,  to  which  snatches  of  maudlin 
conversation,  chiefly  concerning  himself,  drifted 
from  the  noisy  crowd.  Fairmeadow's  arrival,  it 
seemed,  had  aroused  a  vast  theological  discus- 
sion, to  which  the  potations  of  the  night  had 
contributed  as  much  enlightenment  as  potations 
will. 

Upon  Gingerbread  Jenkins  the  events  of  the 
day  had  produced  a  singular  effect.  He  drank 
deep.  Rather,  he  drank  deeper.  Gingerbread 
Jenkins  always  drank  deep.  But  that  was  not 
all.  Gingerbread  Jenkins  had  washed  his  face 
and  combed  his  hair  and  beard.  Moreover,  he 
had  become  preternaturally  solemn ;  and  the 
more  often  he  had  sidled  up  to  Pale  Peter's  bar 
the  more  solemn  he  had  grown.  His  demeanour 
at  the  bar  did  not  in  the  faintest  degree  suggest 
frivolity :  his  voice  was  fallen  to  a  whisper,  he 
walked  on  tiptoe,  his  face  did  not  lose  a  line  of 


62  PALE   PETER'S   GAME 

its  heavy  gravity.  He  whispered,  "  A  HT  licker, 
Charlie ! "  precisely  in  the  manner  of  an  elder 
saying,  "  Let  us  pray  1 "  Earlier  in  the  day — 
some  time  after  the  funeral,  in  fact,  when,  just  at 
that  moment,  it  had  occurred  to  John  Fair- 
meadow  that  little  Pattie  Batch  might  be  in 
need — Gingerbread  Jenkins  had  in  an  excited 
whisper  suggested  a  revival  to  the  new  minister. 
"  We  ought  t'  wake  the  boys  up,"  said  he,  "  an' 
get  'em  t'  realize  their  lost  condition,  an'  save 
'em."  And  he  had  been  somewhat  discon- 
certed, and  more  than  a  little  chagrined,  to  dis- 
cover that  John  Fairmeadow  would  not  enthu- 
siastically fall  in  with  this  plan  for  a  spiritual 
awakening  of  the  community.  But  Fairmeadow 
had  mollified  him,  and  mightily  heartened  him, 
by  threatening  to  make  an  elder  of  him  yet,  and 
adding,  "By  Jove,  Gingerbread,  I'm  going  to 
put  you  in  the  choir  1 "  It  was  for  this  reason 
that  Gingerbread  had  with  much  labour  achieved 
the  air  and  appearance  of  piety. 

Gingerbread's  first  concern  was  with  the 
moral  condition  of  Pale  Peter's  young  son, 
Donald,  whom  he  lifted  from  the  end  of  the  bar, 
where  the  boy  sat  cross-legged,  and  whom  he 
carried  to  a  corner  of  the  barroom,  and  took  on 
his  knee. 

"  Donnie,"  said  he,  "  you  ought  t'  go  t'  Sun- 
day-school." 

"What  for?" 


PALE   PETER'S   GAME  63 

"  We're  goin'  t'  have  a  Sunday-school  here," 
Gingerbread  went  on,  "  where  you  can  go. 
Donnie,  you  ought  t'  go." 

"What  for?" 

"  T'  be  made  into  a  good  little  boy." 

"  Did  you  go  to  Sunday-school?  " 

"  I  did  that ! ' 

"  Did  it  make  you  a  good  little  boy  ? " 

Gingerbread  started.  "  Well,"  he  replied,  at 
last,  "  it  did." 

"  How  long  were  you  good?" 

"Jus' as  long  as  I  went  t' Sunday-school  I " 
triumphantly. 

"What  do  they  do  at  Sunday-school?" 

"  Oh,"  Gingerbread  drawled,  "  they  learn  the 
Golden  Text." 

"What's  that?" 

"  It's  a  verse  from  Holy  Scriptures." 

"  Do  you  know  one  ?  " 

Gingerbread  protested  with  interest  that  he 
knew  the  very  shortest  verse  to  be  found  in  the 
Holy  Scriptures  from  cover  to  cover.  "  An'  I'll 
teach  it  t'  you,"  said  he. 

"What  is  it?" 

"  You  say  it  after  me,"  Gingerbread  replied. 
"  Are  you  ready  ?  " 

Donnie  nodded. 

" '  Jesus  wept,'  "  said  Gingerbread. 

Donnie  struggled  from  Gingerbread's  knee  in 
a  rage. 


64  PALE   PETER'S   GAME 

"  What's  the  matter?"  Gingerbread  demanded. 
"  Why  don't  you  say  it?  " 

"  I'm  not  allowed  to  swear." 

"  That  ain't  swearin',"  Gingerbread  protested. 

"  Is,  too !  "  Donnie  returned  ;  "  and  I'd  get 
licked  if  I  said  it." 

The  boy  went  off,  in  a  flush  of  shame,  and 
climbed  again  to  the  bar,  from  which  more 
righteous  situation  he  continued  to  view  the 
scene.  As  for  Gingerbread  Jenkins,  he  mused 
heavily,  for  a  time,  and  then  looked  about  him, 
from  the  sots  on  the  floor  to  Charlie  the  Infidel, 
who  was  perspiring  in  the  effort  to  reduce  more 
sots  to  the  floor.  Whereupon  Gingerbread 
Jenkins  sighed  ;  and  having  sighed  again — and 
yet  in  a  more  melancholy  way  for  the  third  time 
— he  muttered : 

"  Jesus  wept,  eh  ?     I  sh'uld  think  so  !  " 

It  was  a  genuine  expression :  Gingerbread 
Jenkins  meant  every  word  of  it. 

Fairmeadow  felt  a  hand  on  his  shoulder.  It 
turned  out  to  be  Pale  Peter's  white  hand. 
"  Parson,"  Pale  Peter  whispered,  "let  me  have  a 
word  with  you,  won't  you?"  Fairmeadow  fol- 
lowed the  saloon-keeper  to  a  little  office  at  the 
end  of  the  bar — a  cozy  cubby-hole,  partitioned 
and  curtained  from  the  great  room,  opening  into 
the  bar,  through  a  red-curtained  door,  and 
looking  out,  through  a  red-curtained  window, 


PALE   PETER'S   GAME  65 

upon  the  street.  Here  Pale  Peter  had  a  desk,  a 
safe,  a  little  table  and  two  great  leather-covered 
easy  chairs.  He  bestowed  John  Fairmeadow 
with  much  politeness  in  one  of  the  chairs ;  and 
having  himself  taken  the  other,  and  having 
snipped  the  end  from  a  cigar,  and  having 
lighted  the  cigar  in  a  cynical  muse,  he  blew  a 
cloud  of  smoke  towards  the  ceiling  and  all  at 
once  let  his  eyes  fall  penetratingly  upon  the 
minister.  Fairmeadow  had  observed  in  the 
meantime  that  he  was  a  well-groomed,  easy- 
mannered  man — a  man  of  the  world,  apparently, 
as  much  at  variance  with  the  environment  of 
that  foul,  roaring  bar  as  the  minister  himself. 
But  was  he,  after  all,  out  of  keeping  ?  He  was 
gray — gray-haired  and  gray-faced.  No  wonder 
they  called  him  Pale  Peter  !  He  had  no  colour 
at  all :  even  his  thin,  dry  lips,  shut  tight  in  a 
straight  line,  were  colourless ;  and  his  long, 
light-lashed  eyes  were  pale  in  tone.  His  hands 
were  white :  slim,  long-fingered  hands,  they 
were,  adorned  with  one  flashing  diamond. 
Fairmeadow  observed  that  he  was  immaculate 
as  to  linen  and  clad  in  the  fashion — a  smartly 
cut  tweed,  recently  brushed  and  pressed. 

"  Parson,"  Pale  Peter  asked,  abruptly,  "  what's 
the  game  ?  " 

It  was  a  soft,  agreeable  voice,  dry  and  even ; 
and  a  gentle  smile  accompanied  it — a  smile, 
however,  touched  with  cynicism. 


66  PALE   PETER'S   GAME 

"The  game,"  Fairmeadovv  replied,  bluntly, 
"  is  on  the  square." 

Pale  Peter  lifted  his  eyebrows. 

"  It's  aboveboard,"  Fairmeadow  repeated. 

"  Of  course,"  Pale  Peter  agreed,  with  a  polite 
inclination  ;  "  but  what  is  it?" 

"Just  what  you  see,"  said  Fairmeadow, 
"  and  nothing  else.  I  propose,  in  so  far  as 
God  gives  me  strength,  to  be  a  pastor  to  the 
boys." 

Pale  Peter  looked  John  Fairmeadow  over. 
"  You  don't  look  like  a  parson,"  said  he. 

"  I'm  not." 

"No?"  in  mild  surprise.  "You  said  you 
were,  you  know !  " 

"  I  said  that  I  might  be  called  a  parson." 

Pale  Peter  lifted  his  eyebrows. 

"  I'm  not  yet  a  really  truly  minister,"  Fair- 
meadow  laughed ;  "  but  I  hope  some  day  to  be 
one.  I'm  only  a  lay  preacher,  more  or  less  on 
probation.  I  have  an  arrangement  with  the 
Church.  If  I'm  very,  very  good,  and  if  I  read 
up  on  systematic  theology  and  church  history 
and  that  sort  of  thing  in  my  spare  hours,  and  if 
I  can  pass  a  satisfactory  examination,  they  will 
ordain  me,  in  good  time ;  and  then  I'll  be  a  real 
minister.  You  see,  I  had  no  time  to  go  to  a 
theological  seminary.  I — I — wanted  to  get  to 
work.  I  had  to  get  to  work.  A  year  in  the 
seminary  was  quite  enough — for  a  man  like  me. 


PALE   PETER'S   GAME  67 

And  when  they  proposed  this  arrangement  I  was 
delighted." 

"  Will  they  give  you  a  square  deal  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes ! " 

"  Look  out  for  'em,  Jack." 

"  Oh,"  Fairmeadow  laughed,  "  they'll  give  me 
a  square  deal." 

Each  man  looked  the  other  in  the  eye. 

"  I  think,"  Pale  Peter  drawled,  at  last,  "  that 
you're  on  the  level." 

Fairmeadow  bowed. 

"  I'm  glad  you've  come,"  Pale  Peter  went  on, 
heartily ;  "  and  I  hope  you'll  stay." 

It  was  Fairmeadow's  turn  to  inquire  : 

"What's  the  game?" 

"There's  no  game,"  Pale  Peter  answered. 
"  I'm  glad  you've  come,"  he  added,  "and  I  hope 
you'll  stay." 

Fairmeadow  laughed.  "What's  the  game?" 
he  asked  again. 

"  If  I  can  help  you  in  any  way,"  said  Pale 
Peter,  ignoring  the  question,  "  let  me  know.  I'll 
do  my  best." 

"  What's  the  game  ?  " 

Pale  Peter  drew  the  curtain  aside  and  looked 
the  length  of  the  bar. 

"  Donnie ! "  he  called. 

The  boy  did  not  hear. 

"  Donnie  I " 

Donald  came,  then,  in  answer  to  his  father's 


68  PALE   PETER'S   GAME 

call.  He  was  a  straight,  frank-eyed  little  fellow, 
not  after  Pale  Peter's  fashion,  at  all,  but  doubt- 
less resembling,  Fairmeadow  fancied,  his  mother. 
He  entered  the  little  office  shyly.  For  a  moment 
he  stood  embarrassed.  It  seemed  his  father  had 
forgotten  him.  The  man's  face  was  fixed  in  an 
affectionate  smile ;  his  eyes  were  bent  upon  the 
lad  :  but  he  seemed  to  be  lost  in  a  muse. 

"Father?"  the  boy  inquired. 

"Donnie,"  said  Pale  Peter,  abruptly,  "shake 
hands  with  Jack  Fairmeadow." 

The  boy  shyly  offered  his  hand ,  and  Fair- 
meadow  grasped  it  heartily. 

"This,"  said  Pale  Peter,  "is  my  son." 

Fairmeadow  began  to  comprehend. 

"  My  only  son,"  Pale  Peter  added.  "  His 
mother " 

There  was  a  pause. 

"  She's  dead,"  Donnie  put  in. 

"I  see,"  said  Fairmeadow.  "And  so" — 
turning  to  the  saloon-keeper — "  there  is  a 
game?" 

"  There  is  a  game." 

"  I'll  play  it !  "  Fairmeadow  ejaculated.  "  I'll 
play  it  for  all  I'm  worth  ! " 

Pale  Peter  smiled. 

"  Do  you  play  against  me  ? "  asked  Fair- 
meadow. 

"  Not  at  all ;  on  the  contrary,  I'll  help  you  all 
I  can." 


PALE   PETER'S    GAME  69 

"The  consequences  may  be  unpleasant — for 
you." 

"  I  think  not." 

"  You'll  not  be  warned  ?  " 

"  I'd  rather  take  the  consequences." 

Donald,  bewildered  by  this  dark  exchange, 
and  somewhat  bored  by  it,  went  again  to  his 
seat  on  the  bar. 

Pale  Peter  said — and  with  some  diffidence — 
to  John  Fairmeadow : 

"Will  you  shake  hands?" 

"  First  of  all,  to  define  my  attitude,  and  to  de- 
fine it  exactly,"  Fairmeadow  replied,  rising,  his 
face  flushing,  his  eyes  flashing,  "  I  should  like  to 
express  an  opinion." 

Pale  Peter  smiled.  "  Be  as  frank  as  you  will," 
said  he. 

"  You're  a  damned  rascal ! "  Fairmeadow  ex- 
ploded. 

"  Now,"  said  Pale  Peter,  softly,  "  will  you 
shake  hands?" 

"  I  will." 

They  shook  hands. 

"  I'm  glad  you've  come,  Jack,"  said  the  saloon- 
keeper, "  and  I  hope  you'll  stay.  You'll  be  good 
to  the  boy,  won't  you  ?  You'll — teach  him — 
what  I  can't  teach  him?  You'll  teach  him — 
what  his  mother  would  have  taught  him  had  she 
lived  ?  You  see,"  Pale  Peter  added,  "  he  has  no 
mother.  You  see,  he — oh,  pshaw !  You  under- 


70  PALE   PETER'S   GAME 

stand,  don't  you?  The  kid  hasn't  much  of  a 
chance  here.  I've  been  afraid  he'd  grow  up  to 
be — well — what  he  wouldn't  naturally  be.  I 
reckon  you  understand.  And  I'm  glad  there's 
another  kind  of  man  in  camp.  You're  the  first 
man — of  that  kind — the  kid  ever  saw.  You  see, 
I — I — can't  do  anything  in  that  line.  You'll 
give  the  kid  a  show,  won't  you?" 

"I'll  play  the  game,"  said  Fairmeadow, 
grimly. 

It  was  in  this  way  that  John  Fairmeadow  came 
to  take  up  quarters  at  the  Red  Elephant.  Pale 
Peter  would  not  hear  of  his  going  elsewhere. 
"  Not  at  all ! "  he  exclaimed.  "  Why,  parson, 
this  is  just  the  place  to  get  your  lumber-jacks. 
Be  on  the  ground.  You're  welcome  here.  You 
can  have  the  run  of  the  place."  Well  and  good  1 
Fairmeadow  settled  down — if  at  any  time  of  his 
career  in  the  lumber-woods  he  may  be  said  to 
have  settled  down — and  was  presently  at  home 
in  his  surroundings.  No  amazement  was  excited 
by  his  residence  at  the  Red  Elephant.  It  did 
not  occur  to  the  new  minister's  parishioners  that 
there  was  anything  extraordinary  about  it.  It 
was  agreed,  in  fact,  that  the  arrangement  was  an 
admirable  one.  "Ain't  he  on  the  ground?" 
they  said.  "  Ain't  he  near  the  bar  ?  "  The  pa- 
rishioners were  quite  willing  to  be  taken  care  of. 
The  parishioners  intended  to  be  taken  care  of. 


PALE   PETER'S   GAME  71 

What  was  a  parson  for?  And  with  John  Fair- 
meadow  at  the  Red  Elephant — with  John  Fair- 
meadow  always  within  hail — they  felt  reasonably 
safe.  A  great  friendship  immediately  sprang  into 
life  between  the  big  parson  and  Pale  Peter's  Don- 
ald— a  friendship  which,  in  the  end,  was  to  aston- 
ish and  concern  Pale  Peter.  And  Fairmeadow, 
going  here  and  there  upon  the  business  of  his 
parish,  was  presently  on  terms  with  not  only  the 
lumber-jacks  of  the  near-by  camps,  but  with  the 
men  from  remoter  sections,  and  had  established 
himself  at  least  on  terms  of  trust  with  all  the 
saloon-keepers  of  Swamp's  End,  who  gave  him, 
by  a  tacit  understanding,  the  "  run "  of  their 
"  places." 
In  this  way  the  summer  was  passed. 


VIII 

IN  LOVE  WITH  A  FLOWER 

IT  was  near  noon  of  a  hazy  Sunday  morning 
in  the  fall  of  the  year.  The  summer  was 
gone  :  John  Fairmeadow  was  now  known  to 
the  lumber-jacks  of  all  those  woods  from  the 
Divide  and  the  Logosh  Reservation  to  the  driv- 
ing camps  of  the  Big  River.  A  hazy  morning : 
the  earth  was  yellow  and  languid  and  sweet  to 
smell.  There  was  balsam — there  was  tempered 
sunlight — in  the  air.  A  forest  smoke,  the 
fragrant  mist  of  the  season,  was  opalescent  under 
a  flushed  sun.  A  lazy  little  breeze  flowed  over 
the  pines  and  splashed  odorously  into  the  clear- 
ing of  Swamp's  End.  It  sportively  eddied  for  a 
bit — an  inquisitive  little  wind,  too — and  with  a 
song  and  a  sigh  idled  on  to  the  shadowy  forest 
reaches.  In  Pale  Peter's  bar  the  Saturday  night 
sots — a  frowzy  crew  of  lumber-jacks — were  stir- 
ring on  the  floor.  Dennie  the  Hump,  the 
sweeper,  being  wise,  had  not  disturbed  them,  but 
would  return  with  his  broom  and  dust-pan  when 
these  sleeping  dogs  had  carried  their  aches  and 
their  growling  ill  humour  to  the  healing  out-of- 
doors  ;  he  had  left  them  lie  in  the  litter  and  slime 

72 


In  LOYE  WITH  A  FLOWER  73 

of  the  night  where  they  had  fallen.  A  breath  of 
wind  came  in  at  the  wide  door,  thrown  open  to 
the  morning.  It  paused  appalled  beyond  the 
threshold  and  fluttered  back  to  cleaner  places  to 
gather  resolution.  Presently,  however,  con- 
fronted by  plain  duty,  it  returned  in  a  dogged 
little  rush :  whereupon  it  swept  the  bar,  and 
busily  nosed  the  corners  clean,  and  drove  all  the 
stale  exhalations  of  debauchery  out  of  the 
window,  escaping  disgusted  in  the  wake.  And 
off  it  whisked,  with  a  sniff  and  a  gasp,  to  the  big 
odorous  forest  which  encircled  the  clearing,  glad 
to  have  this  chance  business  satisfactorily  ac- 
complished. 

Gingerbread  Jenkins  awoke. 

"What  was  it  I  come  here  for,  anyhow?"  he 
wondered. 

For  a  moment  no  explanation  occurred  to  him  ; 
but  presently  he  remembered.  The  business  with 
which  he  was  concerned  was  Plain  Tom  Hitch. 
There  had  been  rumours  about  Plain  Tom  Hitch. 
Gingerbread  Jenkins  had  come  in  from  the  Bottle 
River  camps  to  investigate  them  ;  but  he  had  ar- 
rived at  the  Red  Elephant  in  time — in  the  nick  of 
time — to  participate  in  certain  hilarious  proceed- 
ings of  a  sort  very  much  to  his  taste.  The  in- 
vestigation had  been  delayed.  But  it  was  now 
impending.  "  Seems  t'  me,  Peter,"  Gingerbread 
Jenkins  remarked  to  Pale  Peter,  before  he  took 
the  trail  for  Tom  Hitch's  cabin,  "that  if  Plain 


74  In  LO^E  WITH  A  FLOWER 

Tom  Hitch  has  got  separated  and  divorced  from 
a  bottle  o'  whiskey,  there  must  be  a  Livin'  Maker 
o'  the  World.  There's  so  many  dashed  queer 
things  goin'  on  hereabouts  these  days  that  I 
reckon  Somebody's  behind  'em.  It  ain't  John 
Fairmeadow,  neither.  If  Plain  Tom  Hitch  has 
quit  treatin*  his  body  an'  soul  like  a  poor  damned 
fool,  God  A' mighty  managed  it  by  the  Will  an' 
Mercy  of  Him.  Plain  Tom  Hitch  didn't  do  it ; 
nor  no  more  did  John  Fairmeadow.  Thinks  I, 
I'll  take  a  small  squint  at  Plain  Tom  Hitch  an' 
find  out  for  myself.  An'  so,  Peter,"  Gingerbread 
concluded,  "  I'm  on  the  way  t'  Tom  Hitch's 
t'  look  the  ill-bred  fightin'  beast  over  with  my 
own  eyes." 

With  that  Gingerbread  set  out. 

Plain  Tom  Hitch  lived  on  a  homestead  grant 
— a  small  clearing  in  the  woods — two  miles  out  of 
Swamp's  End  on  the  Cant-hook  trail.  He  was 
employed  through  the  week  at  the  Cant-hook 
cutting ;  but  of  a  Saturday  night  it  was  his 
custom  to  return  to  his  little  grant  of  land.  His 
wife  was  dead.  Rowl,  the  old  Bottle  River 
sealer,  maintained  that  she  had  died  of  the  drink 
that  Tom  Hitch  drank.  But  Tom  Hitch  had  a 
daughter  left — a  maid  of  sweet  age  and  looks — 
she  was  turning  nineteen — to  keep  the  cabin  for 
him.  Tom  Hitch  was  now  at  home.  Ginger- 
bread found  him  sitting  in  a  rocking-chair  on  the 


In  LOVE  WITH  A  FLOWER  75 

porch  of  the  cabin,  with  Jinny,  dressed  out  in  her 
Sunday  best,  looking  off  at  the  sunset  over  the 
pines,  as  though  waiting,  perhaps,  for  the  image 
of  some  shy  dream  to  come  dressed  in  heavenly 
light  to  her  little  feet.  It  was  evening,  then :  the 
day  was  near  done,  and  the  last  breeze  was  blow- 
ing soft  and  warm. 

"Tom  Hitch,"  Gingerbread  ejaculated,  when 
he  got  hold  of  Tom  Hitch's  hand,  "  what 
in  the  livin'  thunder  have  you  been  doin'  t'  your- 
self ?  " 

Tom  Hitch  looked  up. 

"Why,  Tom,"  Gingerbread  ran  on,  "they'd 
lie  who  called  you  Plain  Tom  Hitch  this  day ! 
You're  borderin'  on  the  handsome." 

"Ain't  been  doin'  nothin'  much  t'  myself," 
said  Plain  Tom  Hitch ;  "  jus'  washed  my  face." 

"  Get  out ! "  Gingerbread  scorned. 

"  Don't  remember  nothin'  more,"  said  Tom 
Hitch. 

"  Soap  an'  water  do  that  t'  your  face  ?  "  Ginger- 
bread inquired. 

"  Didn't  use  nothin'  else,  Gingerbread." 

"  I  wouldn't  have  believed,"  said  Gingerbread 
Jenkins,  "  that  carbolic  acid  could  accomplish  so 
much  on  the  traces  o*  sin." 

"  No,"  Tom  Hitch  agreed ;  "  me  neither." 

"  What  you  got  there  ?  " 

"  I  got  a  flower." 

"  Thunderation  ! "     Gingerbread      ejaculated. 


76  In  LOl/E  WITH  A  FLOWER 

"  A  flower  !  What  in  blitherin'  thunder  are  you 
doin'  with  a  flower?  " 

"  I'm  usin'  it  for  a  book-mark,"  Tom  replied  ; 
"  but  that  ain't  what  I'm  doiri  with  it." 

"No?" 

"  No,"  said  Tom  ;  "  not  by  no  means.  I'm 
really  enjoyin'  its  society." 

"  Tom  Hitch,"  Gingerbread  demanded,  "  have 
you  lost  your  mind  ?  " 

"No,"  said  Tom;  "not  by  no  means.  I  jus' 
found  out  that  there  is  flowers,"  said  he ;  "  an' 
I'm  s'prised,  an'  I'm  pleased.  I  like  'em :  I'm 
glad  I  got  t'  know  'em." 

"  What  you  readin'  ?"  Gingerbread  inquired. 

"I'm  readin'  my  Bible." 

"What  you  doin'  that  for?" 

"  I  jus'  been  made  acquainted  with  God." 

"  Whew  ! "  Gingerbread  whistled.  "  Who 
done  that  t'  you  ?  " 

"John  Fairmeadow  kindly  introduced  me," 
Tom  placidly  replied,  "  in  the  snake-room  o'  Pale 
Peter's  place,  a  fortnight  ago  come  Tuesday,  in 
the  evenin'.  John  Fairmeadow  introduced  me  ; 
but  I  struck  up  the  real  friendship  for  myself. 
I'm  glad  I  done  it,  too.  I  like  God  :  I'm  glad  I 
got  t'  know  Him.  He's  a  poor  reputation  for 
sociability,  'tis  true,  especially  among  the  young ; 
but  I'm  in  a  position  t'  say  that  once  you  get 
really  well  acquainted  with  Him  there's  no  end 
t'  the  sociability  He's  able  for.  He's  good  com- 


In  LO^E  WtfH  A  FLOWER.  77 

pany.  He's  grand  company.  I  enjoy  His  con- 
versation. I'm  glad  I  know  Him.  I'm  glad  I 
got  Him  for  a  friend.  I  tell  you,  Gingerbread," 
says  he,  "  I'm  almighty  fond  o'  God  !  " 

"  What  par-tick-a-lar  brand  o'  fool  are  you, 
anyhow  ?  "  Gingerbread  frankly  demanded. 

"  I  ain't  no  fool,  at  all,"  Plain  Tom  Hitch  pro- 
tested. "Not  by  no  means!  That's  jus'  what 
I  ain't." 

"Then,"  said  Gingerbread,  "what  you  talkin' 
like  a  ioolfor?  " 

"  I  ain't  talkin'  like  a  fool." 

"  You  are,  too,"  Gingerbread  insisted.  "  I 
never  heard  a  real  fool  do  worse." 

"  I'm  not  talkin'  like  a  fool,  at  all,"  Tom  Hitch 
went  on,  gravely.  "  You  only  think  so  because 
you  ain't  been  used  t'  that  style  o'  conversation. 
Maybe  you  don't  like  the  words  I  use ;  but  if  I 
was  you  I  wouldn't  let  a  little  thing  like  that 
throw  me  off  the  track  o'  truth.  I  tell  you, 
Gingerbread,  I'm  talkin'  an  almighty  big  wis- 
dom that  I  jus'  found  out  about !  You  think  I 
don't  mean  what  I  say  ?  I  do  mean  it.  You 
think  I'm  a  dribblin'  fool  when  I  say  that  I  en- 
joy God's  conversation?  Why,  Gingerbread, 
that  ain't  foolishness  ;  that's  Truth.  It  says  jus' 
'xactly  what  I  mean.  It's  real.  God  is  my 
friend.  I  like  Him :  I'm  wonderful  fond  of  His 
company.  '  Hello,  Tom  Hitch  ! '  says  He,  last 
night,  when  I  was  comin'  out  from  Swamp's 


78  In  LOVE  WITH  A  FLOWER 

End  in  the  starlight.  '  Coin'  home  ?  That's 
proper.  What  you  been  doin'  ? '  says  He. 
4  Lookin'  up  at  all  them  stars  ?  I  wouldn't  do 
that  too  much,  my  boy/  says  He.  '  Them  little 
stars,'  says  He,  '  is  a  pretty  tough  proposition 
for  a  man  like  you.  You'd  find  me  there,  all 
right,  if  that's  what  you  was  lookin'  for ;  but  you 
might  be  frightened  when  you  saw  me.  I'll  tell 
you  what  you  do,'  says  He.  '  It  looks  t'  me, 
jus'  now,  as  if  t'-morrow  might  be  a  fine  sunny 
mornin'  for  this  time  o'  the  year.  You  go  out 
in  the  woods.  I'll  be  waitin'  there  ;  an'  you  an' 
me  will  have  a  nice  quiet  time  t'gether,  lookin' 
at  the  flowers  I  made.  I'm  proud  o'  them,'  says 
He.  '  They're  lovely ;  an'  I'm  glad  I  have  the 
power  an'  the  heart  t'  think  them  into  life. 
You'll  enjoy  yourself  all  alone  in  the  woods  with 
me,'  says  He.  '  Anyhow,'  says  He,  '  I'll  enjoy 
myself  with  you!  An'  that's  how,"  said  Tom 
Hitch,  "  I  happen  t'  hold  this  here  little  flower 
in  my  hand.  All  day  t'-day,"  he  added,  "  I've 
had  a  wonderful  good  time  with  the  little  thing." 

"  Ye  fool !  "  said  Gingerbread  Jenkins. 

"That's  awful  funny,  Gingerbread,"  Tom 
Hitch  replied,  without  resentment.  "  I  look  like 
a  fool  t'  you,"  he  went  on,  "  an'  you  look  like  a 
fool  t'  me.  Funny,  ain't  it  ?  But  I'm  satisfied." 

"  What  ?  "  Gingerbread  ejaculated.  "  Satis- 
fied ?  Where's  your  bottle  o'  whiskey,  Tom 
Hitch  ?  ' 


In  LOYE  WtfH  A  FLOWER  79 

"  I've  put  my  bottle  o1  whiskey,"  Tom  an- 
swered, "  where  it  belonged  before  I  got  it." 

"  Then,"  said  Gingerbread,  "  it's  not  far  from 
your  gullet." 

"  It's  jus*  as  far  away  from  here,"  Tom  Hitch 
insisted,  "  as  anywhere  in  the  world  is." 

"  I  hope  you've  chained  it,"  said  Gingerbread, 
doubtfully;  "it  might  get  loose  an'  bite  you." 

"  It  won't  be  no  trouble  t'  me  no  more,"  said 
Tom  Hitch.  "  Why,  Gingerbread,"  he  went  on, 
"  my  soul  is  turned  towards  Light.  I've  found 
peace ;  an'  jus'  as  long  as  I  can  fall  asleep  like  a 
child  at  night — an'  by  day  walk  the  open  world 
with  neither  terror  nor  shame — I  think  I'll  stand 
pat  with  the  cards  I  hold,  whatever  any  man 
may  think  the  hand  I  got  is  worth  in  the  game. 
Bottle  o'  whiskey  ?  "  said  he.  "  Look ! " 

He  held  up  the  little  flower  for  Gingerbread  to 
see. 

"  'Tis  the  handiwork  o'  my  Friend,"  said  Tom 
Hitch.  "  This  mornin'  He  made  me  the  gift  of 
it.  I  love  it.  You've  simply  no  idea,  Ginger- 
bread, how  common  an'  ornery  a  bottle  o' 
whiskey  looks  when " 

"  When  what  ?  "  Gingerbread  inquired. 

"When  you've  once  fell  in  love  with  a 
flower ! " 

There  came  a  time — and  the  time  was  not  far 
distant — when  Tom  Hitch  staggered  out  to  lit- 
tle Jinny  from  Swamp's  End.  It  was  rain- 


8o  In  LOyE  WHH  A  FLOWER 

ing,  that  night.  The  first  big,  black  drops 
of  a  three  days'  rain  had  begun  to  fall.  It  was 
a  dark-  November  night — black  and  wet  in  the 
woods — with  a  storm  of  cold  wind  coming  down 
from  the  Northwest.  Jinny  met  him — took  him 
by  the  hand  at  the  cross-trails  by  Swamp's  End 
— and  led  him  home  by  the  hand  like  a  child. 
And  three  days  later  John  Fairmeadow  came  in 
from  the  Last  Chance  camps  on  Ragged  Stream, 
where  the  news  of  Tom  Hitch  had  gone.  It 
was  a  bad  day  for  a  man  to  be  abroad  in  the 
swamps.  It  was  a  worse  night  to  foot  the  trail 
from  Dead  Man's  ferry.  There  was  now  a  rush 
of  rain  against  the  window-panes  of  Tom 
Hitch's  cabin  ;  there  was  now  the  patter  of  hail 
on  the  roof.  And  the  big  wind  from  the  North- 
west was  threshing  the  forest  and  crying  at  the 
door.  John  Fairmeadow  was  wet  to  the  skin. 
He  bled  from  the  wounds  of  the  muskegs  :  he 
was  splashed  to  the  eyes  with  the  mud  and  dead 
leaves  of  the  last  trail.  It  is  a  matter  of  thirty 
miles  from  the  Last  Chance  camps  to  Swamp's 
End.  John  Fairmeadow  had  come  it  that  day, 
God  knows  how !  by  the  short  cut  through 
Cedar  Long  Swamp.  He  had  come,  however  ; 
and  he  came  just  in  time  to  pass  judgment  on 
Plain  Tom  Hitch  and  to  intervene  with  his  more 
righteous  justice — all  of  which  shall  be  told  in 
its  place. 

All  this,  however,  was  for  the  future.     On  the 


In  LOYE  WITH  A  FLOWER  81 

placid  evening  when  Tom  Hitch  sat  with  Gin- 
gerbread Jenkins  on  the  porch  of  his  little  cabin, 
it  was  not  in  prospect. 

"  Gingerbread,"  said  Tom  Hitch,  "you  better 
turn  over  a  new  leaf." 

Gingerbread  pondered. 

"  Eh  ?  "  said  Tom  Hitch. 

"  I  reckon,"  Gingerbread  replied,  "  that  I'll 
get  married  an'  settle  down." 

"  You'll — get — married,  Gingerbread  ?  "  Tom 
Hitch  drawled. 

"  Sure  !  "  said  the  confident  Gingerbread ; 
"  nothin'  like  a  little  matrimony  t'  straignten  a 
man  up." 

Tom  Hitch  stared. 

"You  watch  met"  Gingerbread  Jenkins  de- 
clared. 


IX 

THE  WISTFUL  HEART 

IT  was  long  after  noon  in  the  far,  big,  white 
Northwest.  Day  was  on  the  wing.  Christ- 
mas Eve  splendidly  impended — thank  God 
for  unspoiled  childish  faith  and  joys  of  children 
everywhere !  Christmas  Eve  was  fairly  within 
view  and  welcoming  hail,  at  last,  in  the  thicken- 
ing eastern  shadows.  Long  Day  at  its  close. 
Day  in  a  perturbation  of  blessed  unselfishness. 
Day  with  its  tasks  of  love  not  half  accomplished. 
And  Day  near  done !  Bedtime  coming  round 
the  world  on  the  jump.  Nine  o'clock  leaping 
from  longtitude  to  longtitude.  Night,  impatient 
and  determined,  chasing  all  the  children  of  the 
world  in  drowsy  expectation  to  sleep — making  a 
clean  sweep  of  'em,  every  one,  with  her  soft, 
wide  broom  of  dusk.  "  Nine  o'clock  ?  Shoo ! 
Off  you  go !  To-morrow's  on  the  way.  Soon 
— oh,  soon !  To-morrow's  here  when  you  fall 
asleep.  Said  'em  already,  have  you?  Not 
another  word  from  either  of  you.  Not  a  whis- 
per, ye  grinning  rascals  !  Cuddle  down,  little 
people  of  Christ's  heart  and  leading.  Snuggle 
close—closer  yet,  my  children — that  your  arms 
may  grow  used  to  this  loving.  Another  kiss 

82 


The    WISTFUL   HEART  83 

from  mother  ?  Bllssed  Ones !  A  billion  more, 
for  nights  and  mornings,  for  all  day  long  of  all 
the  years,  waiting  here  on  mother's  lips.  And 
now  to  sleep.  Christmas  is  to-morrow.  Hush  ! 
To-morrow.  Yes ;  to-morrow.  Go  t'  sleep ! 
Go  t'  sleep  ! "  And  upon  the  flying  heels  of 
Night — but  still  far  over  seas  from  the  bluster- 
ing white  Northwest  where  Pattie  Batch  was 
waiting  at  Swamp's  End  in  the  woods — the  new 
Day,  with  jolly  countenance,  broad,  rosy  and 
delighted,  was  somewhere  approaching,  in  a 
gale  of  childish  laughter,  blithely  calling  in  its 
westward  sweep  to  all  Christian  children  to 
awaken  to  their  peculiar  and  eternal  joy. 

It  was  Christmas  weather  in  the  big  woods :  a 
Christmas  temperature  like  frozen  steel — thirty 
below  in  the  clearing  of  Swamp's  End — and  a 
rollicking  wind,  careering  over  the  pines,  and 
the  swirling  dust  of  snow  in  the  metallic  air.  A 
cold,  crisp  crackling  world  !  A  Christmas  land, 
too :  a  vast  expanse  of  Christmas  colour,  from 
the  Canadian  line  to  the  Big  River — great,  grave, 
green  pines,  white  earth  and  a  blood-red  sunset ! 
The  low  log-cabins  of  the  lumber  camps  were 
smothered  in  snow ;  they  were  fringed  with  pend- 
ant ice  at  the  eaves,  and  banked  high  with 
drifts,  and  all  window-frosted.  The  trails  were 
thigh  deep  and  drifting.  The  pines — their  great 
fall  imminent,  now — flaunted  long,  black  arms 


84  The    WISTFUL    HEART 

in  the  gale ;  they  creaked,  they  swished,  they 
droned,  they  crackled  with  frost.  It  was  coming 
on  dusk.  The  deeper  reaches  of  the  forest 
were  already  dark.  Horses  and  teamsters,  saw- 
yers, road-monkeys,  axemen,  swampers,  punk- 
hunters  and  all,  floundered  from  the  bush,  white 
with  dry  snow,  icicled  and  frosted  like  a  Christ- 
mas cake,  to  the  roaring  bunk-house  fires,  to  a 
voracious  employment  at  the  cooks'  long  tables, 
and  to  an  expanding  festival  jollity.  Town? 
Sure !  Swamp's  End  for  Christmas — the  lights 
and  companionship  of  the  bedraggled  shanty 
lumber-town  in  the  clearing  of  Swamp's  End ! 
Swamp's  End  for  Gingerbread  Jenkins  1  Swamp's 
End  for  Billy  the  Beast !  Swamp's  End — and  the 
roaring  hilarity  thereof — for  man  and  boy,  straw- 
boss  and  cookee,  of  the  lumber-jacks !  Presently 
the  dim  trails  from  the  Cant-hook  cutting,  from 
the  Bottle  River  camps,  from  Snook's  landing 
and  the  Yellow  Tail  works,  poured  the  boys  into 
town — a  lusty,  hilarious  crew,  like  loosed  school- 
boys on  a  lark,  giving  over,  now,  to  the  only 
distractions,  it  seemed — and  John  Fairmeadow 
maintained  it — which  the  great  world  provided 
in  the  forests. 

Pattie  Batch  might  have  been  aware  of  this — 
the  log  shack  was  on  the  edge  of  town — had  not 
the  window-panes  been  coated  thick  with  Christ- 
mas frost.  She  might  have  heard  rough  laughter 
passing  by — the  Bottle  River  trail  ran  right  past 


The    WISTFUL    HEART  85 

the  door — had  not  the  big  Christmas  wind  snored 
in  the  stove,  and  fearsomely  rattled  the  door,  and 
shaken  the  cabin,  and  swept  howling  on.  But 
she  never  in  the  world  would  have  attended. 
Not  in  that  emergency  !  She  would  not,  for 
anything,  have  peeped  out  of  the  windows,  in 
perfectly  proper  curiosity,  to  watch  the  Bottle 
River  jacks  flounder  into  town.  Not  she  !  Pat- 
tie  Batch  was  busy.  Pattie  Batch  was  so  des- 
perately employed  that  her  swift  little  fingers  de- 
manded all  the  attention  that  the  most  alert,  the 
brightest,  the  very  most  bewitching  gray  eyes  in 
the  whole  wide  world  could  bestow  upon  any- 
thing whatsoever.  Christmas  Eve,  you  see : 
Day  done.  Something  of  soft  fawn-skin  en- 
gaged her,  it  seemed,  with  white  patches 
matched  and  arranged  with  marvellous  exacti- 
tude :  something  made  for  warmth  in  the  wind 
— something  of  small  fashion,  but  long  and  in- 
dubitably capacious — something  with  a  hood. 
A  little  cloak,  possibly :  I  don't  know.  But  I 
am  sure  that  it  could  envelop,  that  it  could  boil 
or  roast,  that  it  could  fairly  smother — a  baby  1 
It  was  lined  with  golden-brown,  crackling  silk, 
which  Pattie  Batch's  mother  had  left  in  her 
trunk,  upon  her  last  departure,  poor  woman ! 
from  the  sordid  world  of  Swamp's  End  to  re- 
gions which  were  now  become  in  Pattie  Batch's 
loving  vision  Places  of  Light.  And  it  was  upon 
this  treasured  cloth  that  Pattie  Batch's  flashing 


86  The    WISTFUL    HEART 

needle  was  working  like  mad  in  the  lamplight. 
A  Christmas  sacrifice  :  it  was  labour  of  love  and 
the  gift  of  treasure. 

Pattie  Batch  was  lovely.  Everybody  knew  it ; 
and  there's  no  denying  it.  Grief  had  not  left 
her  wan  and  apathetic.  She  had  been  "  a  little 
man."  She  had  been  so  much  of  a  little  man 
that  she  was  now  much  more  of  a  little  woman 
than  ever  she  had  been  before.  In  respect  to 
her  bewitching  endearments,  there's  no  mincing 
matters,  at  all.  It  would  shame  a  man  to  'hem 
and  haw  and.  qualify.  She  was  adorable. 
Beauty  of  youth  and  heart  of  tenderness :  a 
quaint  little  womanly  child  of  seventeen — 
gowned,  now,  in  a  black  dress,  long-skirted,  to 
be  sure !  of  her  mother's  old-fashioned  wearing. 
Gray  eyes,  wide,  dark-lashed,  sun-sparkling  and 
shadowy,  and  willful  dark  hair,  a  sweetly  tilted 
little  nose,  a  boyish,  masterful  way,  coquettish 
twinkles,  dimples  in  most  perilous  places,  rosy 
cheeks,  a  tender  little  figure,  an  aristocratic  toss 
to  her  head :  why,  indeed — the  catalogue  of  her 
charms  has  no  end  to  it !  Courage  to  boot,  too 
— as  though  youth  and  loveliness  were  not  suf- 
ficient endowment — and  uncompromising  hon- 
esty with  herself  and  all  the  world.  She  took  in 
washing  from  the  camps  :  there  was  nothing  else 
to  do,  with  Gray  Billy  Batch  lost  in  Rattle  Wa- 
ter, and  now  decently  stowed  away  by  the  Rev- 
erend John  Fairmeadow.  It  was  lonely  in  Gray 


The    WISTFUL    HEART  87 

Billy  Batch's  cabin,  now,  of  course  ;  it  was  some- 
times almost  intolerably  so — and  ghostly,  too, 
with  echoes  of  long-past  footsteps  and  memories 
of  soft  motherly  words.  Pattie  Batch,  however, 
a  practical  little  person,  knew  in  her  own  mind, 
you  must  be  informed,  exactly  how  to  still  the 
haunting  echoes  and  transform  the  memories  into 
blessed  companions  of  her  busy,  gentle  solitude ; 
but  she  had  not  as  yet  managed  the  solution. 

Pattie  Batch  wanted  a  baby.  Companionship, 
of  course,  would  be  a  mere  by-product  of  a 
baby's  presence  in  the  cabin  ;  the  real  wealth  and 
advantage  would  be  a  glowing  satisfaction  in  the 
baby.  At  any  rate,  Pattie  Batch  wanted  one : 
she  always  had — and  she  simply  couldn't  help  it. 
Babies,  however,  were  not  numerous  at  Swamp's 
End  ;  in  point  of  fact,  there  was  only  one — a  per- 
fectly adorable  infant,  it  must  be  understood,  a 
suitable  child,  and  worthy,  in  every  respect,  of 
being  heartily  desired  by  any  woman — which 
unhappily  belonged  to  the  bartender  who  lived 
with  Pale  Peter  of  the  Red  Elephant  saloon. 
No  use  asking  for  that  baby  !  Not  outright.  It 
could  be  borrowed,  however.  Pattie  Batch  had 
borrowed  it ;  she  had  borrowed  it  frequently,  of 
late,  and  had  mysteriously  measured  it  with  a 
calculating  eye,  and  had  estimated,  and  scowled 
in  doubt,  and  scratched  her  head,  and  pursed 
her  sweet  red  lips,  and  had  secretly  spanned  the 
baby,  from  chin  to  toe  and  across  the  back,  with 


88  The    WISTFUL    HEART 

an  industriously  inquiring  thumb  and  little  finger. 
But  a  borrowed  baby,  it  seems,  is  of  no  use  what- 
soever ;  the  satisfaction  is  said  to  be  temporary 
— nothing  more — and  to  leave  a  sense  of  vacant 
arms  and  a  stinging  aggravation  of  envy.  So 
what  Pattie  Batch  wanted  was  a  baby  to  keep — 
a  baby  she  could  call  her  own  and  cherish  against 
meddling — a  baby  that  should  be  so  rosy  and  fat 
and  curly,  so  neat  and  white,  so  scrubbed  and 
highly  polished  from  crown  to  toe-nails,  that 
every  mother  in  the  land,  beholding,  would 
promptly  expire  on  the  spot  of  amazement,  in- 
credulity and  sheer  jealousy. 

There  were  babies  at  Elegant  Corners — a 
frowzy,  listless  mud-hole  of  the  woods,  near  by. 
They  were  all  possessed  by  one  mother,  too. 
The  last  comer  had  appeared  in  the  fall  of  the 
year  ;  and  Pattie  Batch — when  the  great  news 
came  down  to  Swamp's  End — had  instantly 
taken  the  trail  for  Elegant  Corners. 

"  Got  another,  eh  ? "  says  she,  flatly,  to  the 
wretched  Mrs.  Limp. 

"  Uh-huh  ! "  Mrs.  Limp  sighed  and  rolled  her 
eyes,  as  though,  God  save  us !  the  ultimate  mis- 
fortune had  fallen  upon  her.  "  Number  eight," 
she  groaned. 

"  Don't  you  like  it  ?  "  Pattie  demanded,  hope- 
fully. 

Mrs.  Limp  was  so  deeply  submerged  in  tears 
that  she  failed  to  commit  herself. 


The    WISTFUL    HEART  89 

"  You  don' I  like  it,  eh?  "  Pattie  pursued,  hope 
immediately  abounding. 

Mrs.  Limp  sniffed. 

"  Well,"  said  Pattie,  her  little  heart  all  in  a 
flutter — she  was  afflicted,  too,  with  an  adorable 
lisp  in  excitement — "  I  th'pothe  I  ought  t'  be 
thorry." 

Mrs.  Limp  seemed  dolefully  to  agree. 

Pattie  Batch  came  then  straight  to  the  point. 
"  I  been  thavin'  up,"  said  she.  "  I  been  hard  at 
it  for  more  'n  theven  monthth." 

Mrs.  Limp  lifted  her  blue  eyelids. 

"  Yep,"  said  Pattie,  briskily ;  "  an'  I  got  thirty- 
four  twenty-three  right  here  in  my  thkirt. 
Where 'th  that  baby  ?  " 

The  baby  was  fetched  and  deposited  in  her 
arms. 

"  Boy  or  girl  ?  "  Pattie  inquired,  with  business- 
like precision. 

"  Boy,"  Mrs.  Limp  sighed,  "  thank  God  ! " 

Pattie  Batch  was  vastly  disappointed.  She  had 
fancied  a  girl.  It  was  a  shock,  indeed,  to  her 
ardour.  It  was  so  much  of  a  shocking  disap- 
pointment that  Pattie  Batch  might  easily  have 
wept.  A  boy — a  boy  !  Oh,  shoot  1  But  still, 
she  reflected,  considering  the  scarcity,  a  boy — 
this  boy,  in  fact,  cleaned  up — Pattie  Batch  was  all 
the  time  running  the  mottled  infant  over  with 
sharply  appraising  eyes — yes,  the  child  had  pos- 
sibilities, unquestionably  so,  which  soap  and 


90  The    WISTFUL    HEART 

water  might  astonishingly  improve — and,  in  fine, 
this  little  boy  might — 

"  Mithuth  Limp,"  said  Pattie,  looking  that 
lady  straight  in  the  eye,  "  I'll  give  you  twenty- 
five  dollarth  for  thith  here  baby.  By  George,  I 
will!" 

The  astonished  mother  jumped  out  of  her 
chair  and  her  lassitude  at  the  same  instant. 

"  Not  another  thent ! "  Pattie  craftily  declared. 
"  Here — take  your  baby." 

Mrs.  Limp  did  not  quite  take  the  baby.  That 
would  be  but  a  pale  indication  of  the  speed, 
directness  and  outraged  determination  with 
which  she  acted.  She  snatched  the  baby  away, 
with  the  precision  of  a  brisk  woodpecker  after 
an  escaping  worm  ;  and  she  hugged  it  until  it 
howled  for  mercy — and  she  hushed  it — and  she 
crooned  endearment — and  she  kissed  the  baby 
with  such  fervour  and  persistency  that  she  saved 
its  puckered  face  a  washing.  And  then  she 
turned — in  a  rage  of  indignation — in  a  storm  of 
scorn — in  a  whirlwind  of  execration — upon  poor 
little  Pattie  Batch.  But  Pattie  Batch  was  gone. 
Discreet  little  Pattie  Batch  didn't  need  to  be 
told  /  Her  little  feet  were  already  pattering  over 
the  trail  to  Swamp's  End  ;  and  she  was  crying  as 
she  ran. 

But  Pattie  Batch's  wish  for  a  baby  went  back 
to  the  very  beginnings  of  things.  Ask  Ginger- 


rhe    WISTFUL    HEART  91 

bread  Jenkins.  Gingerbread  Jenkins  knows.  It 
was  Gingerbread  Jenkins  who  had  found  her, 
long  ago — Pattie  was  little  more  than  a  baby 
herself,  then — on  the  Bottle  River  Trail  ;  and 
to  Gingerbread  Jenkins'  astonishment  the  child 
was  lugging  a  gun  into  the  woods. 

"  Where  you  goin'  ? "  says  Gingerbread 
Jenkins. 

"Gunnin'." 

"  Gunnin',  eh  ?     What  for  ?  " 

"Jutht  gunnin'." 

"  But  what  you  gunnin'  for  ?  " 

"  None  o'  your  bithneth,"  says  saucy  little 
Pattie  Batch. 

"  It  is  my  business,"  Gingerbread  Jenkins  de- 
clared ;  "  an'  if  you  don't  tell  me  what  you're 
gunnin'  for  I'll  have  you  home  in  a  jiffy." 

"Well,"  says  Pattie,  "  I'm— gunnin'." 

"What  for?" 

"  Storks,"  says  Pattie. 

"  Goin'  t'  kill  'em  ?  "  Gingerbread  inquired. 

"  No,"  says  Pattie. 

"  What's  your  gun  for?  " 

"  I'm  goin'  t'  wing  a  couple,"  says  Pattie,  "  an' 
tame  *em." 

That  was  Pattie  Batch. 


A  GIFT  NEGLECTED 

WELL,  well  1  there  was  only  one  baby  at 
Swamp's  End  ;  and  that  baby  Pattie 
Batch  had  adopted.  In  her  mind,  of 
course :  quite  on  the  sly.  Nobody  could  adopt 
Pale  Peter's  bartender's  baby  in  any  other  way. 
And  here  was  Christmas  come  again !  Day 
vgone  beyond  the  last  waving  pines  in  a  cold 
flush  of  red  and  gold :  Christmas  Eve  here  at 
last.  Pattie  Batch's  soft  arms  were  still  want- 
ing; there  were  a  thousand  kisses  waiting  on 
her  tender  lips  for  giving  ;  her  voice  was  all  at- 
tuned to  crooning  sweetest  lullabys  ;  but  her 
heart  was  empty — save  for  a  child  of  mist  and 
wishes.  It  was  dark,  now  ;  but  though  the  wind 
was  still  rollicking  down  there  was  no  snow 
blowing,  and  the  shy  stars  were  winking  wide- 
eyed  upon  the  busy  world  and  all  the  myriad 
mysteries  it  exhibited  out-of-doors.  The  gift  of 
silk  and  fawn-skin  was  finished.  A  perfect  gift : 
fashioned  and  accomplished  with  all  the  dex- 
terity Pattie  Batch  could  employ.  "  Just  as  if," 
she  had  determined,  "  it  was  for  my  own  baby." 
And  Pattie  Batch — after  an  agitated  glance  at 
the  clock — quickly  shoed  and  cloaked  and 

92 


A    GIFT   NEGLECTED  93 

hooded  her  sweet  and  blooming  little  self ;  and 
she  listened  to  the  lusty  wind,  and  she  put  a 
most  adorable  little  nose  out-of-doors  to  sense 
the  frosty  weather,  and  she  fluttered  about  the 
warm  room  in  search  of  her  mittens,  and  then 
she  turned  down  the  lamp,  chucked  a  log  in  the 
stove,  put  on  the  dampers  like  a  prudent  house- 
holder, and,  having  made  quite  sure  that  the 
door  was  latched,  scampered  off  to  town  in  vast 
and  twittering  delight  with  the  nipping  frost, 
with  the  roistering  wind,  the  fluffy  snow,  the 
stars,  the  whole  of  God's  clean  world,  and  with 
herself,  too,  and  with  the  blessed  Night  of  the 
year. 

She  was  exceedingly  cautious ;  and  she  was 
not  observed — not  for  the  smallest  flash.  The 
thing  was  accomplished  in  mystery.  Before  she 
was  aware  of  it — before  her  heart  had  eased  its 
agitation — she  was  safely  out  again  ;  and  there, 
in  plain  view,  on  the  table,  in  Pale  Peter's  liv- 
ing-room behind  the  saloon,  lay  the  gift  of  silk 
and  fawn-skin  for  Pale  Peter's  bartender's  baby 
— a  Christmas  mystery  for  them  all  to  solve  as 
best  they  could. 

Pattie  Batch  peeked  in  at  the  window. 

"I  wonder,"  she  mused,  "if  they'll  ever — if 
they'll  ever  in  the  world — find  out  I  done  it  1 " 

Presently  Pale  Peter's  bartender  came  in. 
This  was  Charlie  the  Infidel.  Pattie  Batch  rose 


94          A  GIFT:  NEGLECTED 

on  her  cold  little  toes  the  better  to  observe. 
The  frost  exploded  like  pistol  shots  under  her 
feet.  She  started.  Really,  the  little  mite  began 
to  feel — and  rather  exquisitely — like  a  thief  in 
the  night.  There  was  another  explosion  of  frost 
as  she  crept  nearer  her  peek-hole  in  the  glowing 
window.  Whew !  How  deliciously  mysterious 
it  was  !  Nothing  much,  however,  happened  in 
Pale  Peter's  living-room  to  continue  the  thrill. 
Charlie  the  Infidel,  in  haste,  chanced  to  brush 
the  fawn-skin  cloak  off  the  table.  He  paused 
impatiently  to  pick  it  up,  and  to  fling  it  back  in 
a  heap :  whereupon  he  pressed  on  to  the  bar. 
That  wasn't  very  thrilling,  you  may  be  sure ; 
but  Charlie  the  Infidel,  after  all,  was  only  a 
father,  and  Pattie  Batch,  her  courage  not  at  all 
diminished,  still  waited  in  the  frosty  shadow, 
quite  absorbed  in  expectation.  Entered,  then, 
Mrs.  Bartender — a  blonde,  bored,  novel-reading 
little  lady  in  splendid  array.  First  of  all,  as 
Pattie  Batch  observed,  she  yawned  ;  secondly, 
she  yawned  again.  And  she  was  about  to 
attempt  the  extraordinary  feat  of  yawning  a 
third  time — and  doubtless  would  have  achieved 
it — when  her  washed  blue  eyes  chanced  to  fall 
on  the  fawn-skin  coat,  with  its  lining  of  golden- 
brown  silk  shimmering  in  the  lamplight.  She 
picked  it  up,  of  course,  in  a  bored  sort  of  way ; 
and  she  was  positively  on  the  very  verge  of 
being  interested  in  it  when — would  you  believe 


A    GIFT  NEGLECTED  95 

it  ? — she  attacked  the  third  yawn — or  the  third 
yawn  attacked  her — and  however  it  was,  the 
yawn  was  accomplished  with  such  dexterity, 
such  certainty,  and  with  such  satisfaction  to  the 
lady,  that  she  quite  forgot  to  look  at  the  fawn- 
skin  cloak  again. 

"  By  George,  she's  tired  !  "  Pattie  Batch  ex- 
claimed to  herself. 

Pattie  Batch  sighed :  she  sighed  twice,  in 
point  of  fact — the  second  sigh,  a  great,  long 
one,  discovering  itself  somewhere  very  deep 
within — and  then  she  went  home  disconsolate. 


XI 

THE   MAKING    OF  A    MAN 

SOON  after  dark,  John  Fairmeadow,  with  a 
pack  on  his  broad  back,  swung  from  the 
Jumping  Jimmy  trail  into  the  clearing  of 
Swamp's  End,  ceasing  only  then  his  high,  vibrant 
song,  and  came  striding  down  the  huddled  street, 
a  big  man  in  rare  humour  with  life,  labour  and 
the  night.  A  shadow — not  John  Fairmeadow's 
shadow — was  in  cautious  pursuit ;  but  of  this 
dark,  secret  follower  John  Fairmeadow  was  not 
aware.  Near  the  Cafe  of  Egyptian  Delights  he 
stumbled.  The  pursuing  Shadow  gasped ;  and 
John  Fairmeadow  was  so  mightily  exercised  for 
his  pack  that  he  ejaculated  in  a  fashion  most  un- 
ministerial,  but  recovered  his  footing  with  a  jerk, 
and  doubtless  near  turned  pale  with  apprehen- 
sion. But  the  pack  was  safe — the  delicate  con- 
tents, whatever  they  were,  quite  undisturbed. 
John  Fairmeadow  gently  adjusted  the  pack, 
stamped  the  snow  from  his  soles,  as  a  precaution- 
ary measure,  wiped  the  frost  from  his  brows  and 
eyelids,  in  the  same  cautious  wisdom,  and,  still 
followed  by  the  Shadow,  strode  on,  but  with 
infinitely  more  care.  At  the  Red  Elephant — 
Pale  Peter's  glowing  saloon — he  turned  in.  The 

96 


The    MAKING    of   a    MAN  97 

bar,  as  always,  in  these  days,  gave  the  young 
apostle  to  those  unrighteous  parts  a  roaring 
welcome.  It  was  become  the  fashion  :  big,  bub- 
bling, rosy  John  Fairmeadow,  with  the  square 
jaw,  the  frank,  admonitory  tongue,  the  tender 
and  persuasive  heart,  the  competent,  not  un- 
willing fists,  was  welcome  everywhere,  from  the 
Bottle  River  camps  and  the  Cant-hook  cutting 
to  the  bunk-houses  of  the  Yellow  Tail,  from  be- 
yond the  Divide  to  the  lower  waters  of  the  Big 
River,  in  every  saloon,  bunk-house,  superintend- 
ent's office  and  cook's  quarters  of  his  wide  green 
parish — welcome  to  preach  and  to  pray,  to  bury, 
marry,  gossip  and  scold,  and,  upon  goodly  prov- 
ocation, to  fight,  all  to  the  same  righteous  end. 
A  clean  man  :  a  big,  broad-shouldered,  deep- 
chested,  long-legged  body,  with  a  soul  to  match 
it — a  glowing  heart  and  a  purpose  lifted  high. 
There  was  no  mistaking  the  man  by  men. 

John  Fairmeadow,  clad  like  a  lumber-jack,  up- 
right, now,  in  the  full  stature  of  a  man,  body 
and  soul,  grinned  like  a  delighted  schoolboy. 
His  fine  head  was  thrown  back,  in  the  pride  of 
clean,  sure  strength ;  his  broad  face  was  in  a 
rosy  glow ;  his  great  chest  still  heaved  with  the 
labour  of  a  stormy  trail ;  his  gray  eyes  flashed 
and  twinkled  in  the  soft  light  of  Pale  Peter's 
many  lamps.  Twinkled  ? — and  with  merriment  ? 
— in  that  long,  stifling,  roaring,  smoky,  fume- 
laden  room  ?  For  a  moment :  then  closed,  a  bit 


98  The    MAKING    of   a    MAN 

worn,  and  melancholy,  too  ;  but  presently,  with 
reviving  faith  to  urge  them,  opened  wide  and 
heartily,  and  began  to  twinkle  again.  The  bar 
was  in  festive  array :  Christmas  greens,  red 
berries,  ribbons,  tissue-paper  and  gleaming  tin- 
foil— flash  of  mirrors,  bright  colour,  branches  of 
pine,  cedar  and  spruce  from  the  big  balsamic 
woods.  It  was  crowded  with  lumber-jacks — great 
fellows  from  the  forest,  big  of  body  and  passion, 
here  gathered  in  celebration  of  the  festival. 
John  Fairmeadow,  getting  all  at  once  and  vigor- 
ously under  way,  shouted  "  Merry  Christmas, 
boys  ! "  and  "  Hello,  Charlie  ! "  to  the  bartender ; 
and  he  shook  hands  with  Pale  Peter,  slapped 
Billy  the  Beast  on  the  back,  roared  a  greeting 
to  Gingerbread  Jenkins,  exclaimed  "  Merry 
Christmas  !  "  with  the  speed  and  detonation  of  a 
Catling  gun,  inquired  after  Butcher  Long's  brood 
of  kids  in  the  East,  and  cried  "  Hello,  old  man  !  " 
and  "  What's  the  good  word  from  Yellow  Tail  ?  " 
and  "  How  d'ye  do  ?  "  and  "  Glad  t'  see  you  ! " 
and  everywhere  shook  hands  and  clapped  backs 
— carefully  preserving,  however,  his  own  back 
from  being  slapped — and  devoutly  ejaculated 
"  God  bless  you,  men  !  A  Merry  Christmas  to 
you  all  and  every  one ! "  and  eventually  dis- 
appeared in  the  direction  of  Pale  Peter's  living- 
quarters,  leaving  an  uproar  of  genial  delight 
behind  him. 

John  Fairmeadow's  Shadow,  however,  unable 


The    MAKING    of   a    MAN  99 

to  enter  the  bar  of  the  Red  Elephant,  waited  in 
seclusion  across  the  windy  street. 

Mrs.  Bartender  was  still  yawning  as  John 
Fairmeadow  entered  upon  her  ennui ;  but  when 
the  big  minister,  exercising  the  softest  sort  of 
caution,  slipped  off  his  gigantic  pack,  and 
deposited  it  with  exquisitely  delicate  care,  and  a 
face  of  deep  concern,  on  the  table,  she  opened 
her  faded  eyes  with  interested  curiosity.  And 
as  for  the  contents  of  the  pack,  there's  no  more 
concealing  them  1  The  article  must  now  be  de- 
clared and  produced.  It  was  a  baby.  Of 
course,  it  was  a  baby  !  The  thing  has  been 
obvious  all  along.  John  Fairmeadow's  found- 
ling: left  in  a  basket  at  the  threshold  of  his 
temporary  lodging-room  at  Big  Rapids  that 
very  morning — first  to  John  Fairmeadow's  con- 
sternation, and  then  to  his  gleeful  delight.  As 
for  the  baby  itself — it  was  presently  unswathed — 
it  is  quite  beyond  me  to  describe  its  excellencies 
of  appearance  and  conduct.  John  Fairmeadow 
himself  couldn't  make  the  attempt  and  escape 
annihilation.  It  was  a  real  and  regular  baby, 
however.  One  might  suggest,  in  inadequate 
description,  that  it  was  a  plump  baby ;  one 
might  add  that  it  was  a  lusty  baby.  It  had  hair ; 
it  had  a  pucker  of  amazement ;  its  eyes,  two  of 
them,  were  properly  disposed  in  its  head  ;  its 
hands  were  of  what  are  called  rose-leaf  dimen- 


ioo         The   MAKING   of  a    MAN 

sions  ;  it  had,  apparently,  a  fixed  habit  of  squirm- 
ing ;  it  had  no  teeth.  Evidently  a  healthy  baby 
— a  baby  that  any  mother  might  be  proud  of — 
doubtless  a  marvel  of  infantile  perfection  in  every 
respect.  I  should  not  venture  to  dispute  such 
an  assertion  ;  nor  would  John  Fairmeadow — 
nor  any  other  bold  gentleman  of  Swamp's 
End  and  Elegant  Corners — not  in  these  later 
days .' 

Mrs.  Bartender,  of  course,  lifted  her  languid 
white  hands  in  uttermost  astonishment. 

"  There ! "  John  Fairmeadow  exploded,  looking 
round  like  a  showman.  "  What  d'ye  think  o' 
that?  Eh?" 

"  But,  Mr.  Fairmeadow,"  the  poor  lady  stam- 
mered, "  what  have  you  brought  it  here  for?  " 

"  Why  not  ?  "  John  Fairmeadow  demanded. 
"  Why  not,  indeed  ?  It's  perfectly  polite." 

"  What  am  I  to  do  with  it  ?  " 

"  It  isn't  intoxicated,  my  good  woman,"  John 
Fairmeadow  ran  on,  in  great  wrath  ;  "  and  it's 
never  been  in  jail." 

"  But  my  dear  Mr.  Fairmeadow,  do  be  sensible  ; 
what  am  I  to  do  with  it  ?  " 

"  Why,  ah — I  should  think,"  John  Fairmeadow 
ventured — the  baby  was  still  sleeping  like  a 
brick — "that  you  might  first  of  all — ah — resus- 
citate it.  Would  a — a  slight  poke  in  the  ribs — • 
provoke  animation  ?  " 

But  the  baby  didn't  need  a  poke  in  the  ribs. 


The    MAKING   of  a    MAN         101 

It  didn't  need  any  other  sort  of  resuscitation. 
Not  that  baby  !  The  self-dependent,  courageous, 
perfectly  competent  and  winning  little  rascal 
resuscitated  itself.  Instantly,  too — and  posi- 
tively— and  apparently  without  the  least  effort 
in  the  world.  Moreover — and  with  remarkable 
directness — it  demanded  what  it  wanted — and 
got  it.  And  having  been  nourished  to  its  satis- 
faction from  young  Master  Bartender's  silver- 
mounted  bottle  (which  John  Fairmeadow  then 
secretly  slipped  into  his  pocket) — and  having 
yawned  in  a  fashion  so  tremendous  that  Mrs. 
Bartender  herself  could  never  hope  to  equal  that 
infinite  expression  of  boredom — and  having 
smiled,  and  having  wriggled,  and  having  giggled, 
and  cooed,  and  attempted — actually  attempted — 
to  get  its  great  toe  in  its  mouth  without  extra- 
neous assistance  of  any  sort  whatsoever — even 
without  the  slightest  suggestion  that  such  a 
thing  would  be  an  amazingly  engaging  trick  in 
a  baby  of  its  age  and  degree — it  burst  into  a 
gurgle  of  glee  so  wondrously  genuine  and  in- 
fectious that  poor,  bored  Mrs.  Bartender  herself 
was  quite  unable  to  resist  it,  and  promptly,  and 
publicly,  and  finally  committed  herself  to  the  as- 
sertion that  the  baby  was  a  dear,  wherever  it 
came  from. 

John  Fairmeadow  snatched  it  from  the  table, 
and  was  about  to  make  off  with  it,  when  Mrs. 
Bartender  interposed. 


102          The   MAKING    of  a    MAN 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Fairmeadow,"  said  she,  "  that 
child  will  simply  catch  its  death  of  cold  !  " 

There  was  something  handy,  however — some- 
thing of  silk  and  fawn-skin — and  with  this  en- 
veloping the  baby  John  \  airmeadow  swung  in  a 
roar  with  it  to  the  bar — and  held  it  aloft  in  all 
that  seething  wickedness — pure  symbol  of  the 
blessed  Christmas  festival.  And  there  was  a 
sensation,  of  course — a  sensation  beginning  in 
vociferous  ejaculations,  but  presently  failing  to 
a  buzz  of  conjecture.  There  were  questions  to 
follow :  to  which  John  Fairmeadow  answered 
that  he  had  found  the  baby — that  the  baby 
was  nobody's  baby — that  the  baby  was  his  baby 
by  right  of  finders  keepers — that  the  baby  was 
everybody's  baby — and  that  the  baby  would 
presently  be  somebody's  much-loved  baby,  that 
he'd  vouch  for !  The  baby,  now  resting  content 
in  John  Fairmeadow's  arms,  was  diffidently  ap- 
proached and  examined.  Gingerbread  Jenkins 
poked  a  finger  at  it,  and  said,  in  a  voice  of  the 
most  inimical  description,  "  Get  out !  "  without 
disturbing  the  baby's  serene  equanimity  in  the 
slightest.  Young  Billy  Lush,  charging  his  soft, 
boyish  voice  with  all  the  horrifying  intent  he 
could  muster,  threatened  to  "  catch  "  the  baby, 
as  though  bent  upon  devouring  it  on  the  spot ; 
but  the  baby  only  chuckled  with  delight.  Billy 
the  Beast  incautiously  approached  a  finger  near 
the  baby's  stout  abdomen  ;  and  the  baby — with 


The   MAKING   of  a    MAN         103 

a  perfectly  fearless  glance  into  the  very  depths 
of  the  Beast's  frowzy  beard — clutched  the  finger 
and  smiled  like  an  angel.  Long  Butcher  Long 
attempted  to  tweak  the  baby's  nose  ;  but  the 
effort  was  a  ridiculous  failure,  practiced  so 
clumsily  on  an  object  so  small,  and  the  only 
effect  was  to  cause  the  baby  to  achieve  a  tre- 
mendous wriggle  and  a  loud  scream  of  laughter. 
These  experiments  were  variously  repeated,  but 
all  with  the  same  cherubic  result ;  the  baby  con- 
ducted itself  with  admirable  self-possession  and 
courage,  as  though,  indeed,  it  had  been  used, 
every  hour  of  its  life,  to  the  company  of  riotous 
lumber-jacks  in  town. 

The  inevitable  happened,  of  course  :  Billy  the 
Beast,  whose  pocket  was  smoking  with  his 
wages,  proposed  the  baby's  health,  and  there 
was  an  uproarious  rush  for  the  bar. 

"  Just  a  minute,  boys ! "  John  Fairmeadow 
drawled. 

It  was  an  awkward  moment :  but  the  jacks 
were  by  this  time  used  to  being  bidden  by  this 
man  who  was  a  man,  and  the  rush  was  forthwith 
halted. 

"  Just  a  minute,  boys,"  John  Fairmeadow  re- 
peated, "  for  your  minister ! " 

The  baby  was  then  held  aloft  in  John  Fair- 
meadow's  big,  kind,  sensitive  hands,  and  from 
this  safe  perch  softly  smiled  upon  the  crowd  of 
flushed  and  bearded  faces  all  roundabout. 


104         The   MAKING   of  a    MAN 

"  Boys,"  John  Fairmeadow  drawled,  signifi- 
cantly, "  this  is  the  only  sort  of  church  we  have 
in  these  woods." 

There  was  a  laughing  stir  and  shuffling  :  but 
presently  a  tolerant  silence  fell,  in  obedience  to 
the  custom  John  Fairmeadow  had  established  ; 
and  caps  came  off,  and  pipes  were  smothered. 

"  A  little  away  from  the  bar,  please,"  the  big 
preacher  suggested. 

Pale  Peter  nodded  to  Charlie  the  Infidel ;  and 
the  clink  of  glasses  ceased — and  the  bottles  were 
left  in  peace — and  the  hands  of  the  bartender 
rested. 

"  Now,  boys,"  said  John  Fairmeadow,  letting 
the  foundling  fall  softly  into  his  arms,  "I'm  not 
going  to  preach  to  you  to-night,  though  God 
knows  you  need  it !  I'm  just  going  to  pray  for 
the  baby.  Dear  Father  of  us  wilful  Children  of 
the  Vale"  he  began,  at  once,  lifting  a  placid,  be- 
lieving face  above  the  smiling  child  in  his  arms, 
"  we  ask  Thy  guardianship  of  this  child.  In  us 
is  no  perfect  counsel  for  him  nor  any  help  whatso- 
ever that  he  may  surely  apprehend.  In  Thine 
acceptable  wisdom  Thou  settest  Thy  little  ones  in 
a  world  where  presently  only  Thou  canst  teach 
them:  teach  Thou  then  this  little  one.  Thou 
alone  knowest  the  right  path  for  a  little  boy's  in- 
quiring feet:  lead  then  this  little  boy.  Thou 
alone  art  saving  helper  to  an  adventuring  lad : 
help  then  this  lad.  Thou  alone  art  all-perceiving 


The    MAKING    of  a    MAN          105 

and  persuasive,  alone  art  Truth  Teller  to  a  be- 
^vildered  youth  and  Good  Example  in  his  wonder- 
ing sight :  be  then  Good  Example  and  Teller  of 
Truth  to  this  youth.  Thou  alone  art  in  the  fash- 
ioning ways  of  Thine  own  world  a  Maker  of 
Men  :  make  then  of  this  little  child  a  Man.  We 
ask  no  easy  path  for  him — no  unmanly  way — no 
indulgent  tempering  of  the  winds.  We  pray  for 
no  riches — -for  no  great  deeds  of  his  doing — -for  no 
ease  at  all  nor  any  satisfaction.  We  ask  of  Thee 
in  his  behalf  good  Manhood.  Lead  him  where 
true  men  must  go  :  lead  him  where  they  learn  the 
all  of  life  ;  lead  him  where  they  level  down  and 
build  again  ;  lead  him  where  in  righteous  strength 
his  hands  may  lift  the  fallen  ;  lead  him  where  in 
anger  he  may  strike ;  lead  him  where  his  tears 
may  fall ;  lead  him  where  his  heart  may  find  a 
pure  desire.  O  Almighty  God,  Lover  of  chil- 
dren, Father  of  us  all  alike,  make  of  this  child,  in 
the  measure  of  his  service  and  in  the  stature  of 
his  soul,  a  Man.  Amen." 
Amen,  indeed  1 


XII 

CHRISTMAS  EYE  AT  SWAMP'S  END 

AS  for  poor  little  Pattie  Batch,  all  this 
while,  she  sat  alone,  a  doleful  heart,  in 
the  shack  at  the  edge  of  the  big,  black 
woods,  quite  unaware  of  the  momentous  advent 
of  a  Christmas  baby  at  Swamp's  End.  The 
Christmas  wind  was  still  high,  still  shaking  the 
cabin,  still  rattling  the  door,  still  howling  like  a 
wild  beast  in  the  night,  still  roaring  in  the  red 
stove  ;  and  snow  was  falling  again — a  dry  dust 
of  snow  which  veiled  the  wondering  stars.  It 
was  no  longer  a  jolly,  rollicking  Christmas  wind- 
The  gale,  now,  it  seemed,  was  become  inimical 
to  the  lonely  child  :  wild,  vaunting,  merciless 
terrible  with  cold.  Pattie  Batch,  disconsolate, 
sighed  more  often  than  a  tender  heart  could 
bear  to  sanction  in  a  child,  and  found  swift 
visions  in  the  glowing  coals,  though  no  enliven- 
ing tableaux  ;  but — dear  brave  and  human  little 
one  1 — she  presently  ejaculated  "  Shoot  it,  any- 
how ! "  and  began  at  once  to  cheer  up.  And 
she  was  comfortably  toasting  her  shins,  in  a 
placid  delusion  of  stormy,  mile-wide  privacy,  her 
mother's  old-fashioned  long  black  skirt  drawn 
up  from  her  dainty  toes  (of  which,  of  course,  the 

106 


CHRISTMAS  El/E  at  SWAMP'S  END     107 

imminent  John  Fairmeadow  was  never  permitted 
to  be  aware),  when,  all  at  once,  and  clamouring 
above  the  old  wind's  howling,  there  was  a  tre- 
mendous knocking  at  the  door — a  knocking  so 
loud,  and  commanding,  and  prolonged,  that 
Pattie  Batch  jumped  like  a  fawn  in  alarm,  and 
stood  for  a  moment  with  palpitating  heart  and  a 
mighty  inclination  to  fly  to  the  bedroom  and 
lock  herself  in.  Presently,  however,  she  mus- 
tered courage  to  call  "  Come  in  !  "  in  a  sufficient 
tone :  whereupon,  the  door  was  immediately 
flung  wide,  and  big  John  Fairmeadow,  with  a 
wild,  dusty  blast  of  the  gale,  strode  in  with  a 
gigantic  basket,  and  slammed  the  door  behind 
him,  leaving  the  shivering,  tenacious  Shadow, 
which  had  secretly  followed  from  Swamp's  End, 
to  keep  cold  vigil  outside. 

"Hello,  there,  Pattie  Batch!"  John  Fair- 
meadow  roared.  "  Merry  Christmas !  " 

Pattie  Batch  stared. 

"  Hello,  I  say  ! "  John  Fairmeadow  cried,  again. 
"  Merry  Christmas,  ye  rascal  I  " 

Pattie  Batch,  gulping  her  delight,  and  quite 
incapable  of  uttering  a  word,  because  of  it,  flew 
to  the  kitchen,  instead  of  to  the  bedroom,  and  re- 
turned with  a  broom,  with  which,  while  the 
Shadow  peeked  in  at  the  window,  she  brushed, 
and  scraped,  and  slapped  John  Fairmeadow  so 
vigorously  that  John  Fairmeadow  scampered  into 
a  corner  and  stood  at  bay. 


io8    CHRISTMAS  £K£  at  SWAMP'S  END 

"  Look  out,  there,  Polly  Pry  ! "  he  shouted,  in 
a  rage  ;  "  don't  you  dare  look  at  my  basket." 

Pattie  Batch  had  been  doing  nothing  of  the 
sort. 

"  Don't  you  so  much  as  squint  at  my  basket," 
John  Fairmeadovv  growled. 

Pattie  Batch  instantly  did,  of  course — and  with 
her  eyes  wide  and  sparkling,  too.  It  was  really 
something  more  than  a  squint. 

"  Keep  your  eyes  off  that  basket,  Miss  Pry  ! " 
John  Fairmeadow  commanded,  again.  "  Huh  1 " 
he  complained,  emerging  from  his  refuge  and 
throwing  his  mackinaw  and  cap  on  the  floor  ; 
"  anybody  'd  think  there  was  something  in  that 
basket  for  you." 

"There  ith,"  Pattie  Batch  gasped,  in  ecstasy. 

"  Is  1 "  John  Fairmeadow  scornfully  mocked. 
"  Huh  ! " 

Pattie  Batch  caught  John  Fairmeadow  by  the 
two  lapels  of  his  coat — and  she  stood  on  tiptoe 
— and  she  wouldn't  let  John  Fairmeadow  turn 
his  head  away — (as  if  John  Fairmeadow  cared  to 
evade  those  round,  glowing  eyes !) — and  she 
looked  into  his  gray  eyes  with  a  bewitching  con- 
glomeration of  hope,  amusement,  curiosity  and 
adoring  childish  affection.  "  There  ith,  too,"  she 
chuckled,  her  lisp  getting  the  better  of  her.  "  Yeth, 
there  ith.  I  know  you,  Mithter  Fairmeadow." 

John  Fairmeadow  ridiculously  failed  to  smother 
a  chuckle  in  a  growl. 


CHRISTMAS  EVE  at  SWAMPS  END     109 

"Doth  it  bite?"  Pattie  Batch  inquired,  mali- 
ciously feigning  a  terrific  fright. 

"  Nonsense  1 "  John  Fairmeadow  declared  ;  "  it 
hasn't  a  tooth  in  its  head."  He  added,  with  one 
eye  closed,  and  palms  lifted  :  "  But — aha  ! — just 
you  wait  and  see." 

"  Well,"  Pattie  Batch  drawled,  "  I  th'pose  it'th 
a  turkey.  It'th  thertainly  tfiomethm'  t'  eat,"  she 
declared. 

"  Good  enough  to  eat,  I  bet  you  !  "  John  Fair- 
meadow  agreed,  with  the  air  of  having  concealed 
in  that  veritable  big  basket  the  sweetest  morsel 
in  all  the  world. 

"  Ith  it  a  chicken  ?  " 

"  Nonsense  ! "  said  John  Fairmeadow  ;  "  it's 
fa-a-a-ar  more  delicious  than  chicken.  Hi,  there, 
Poll  Pry  ! "  he  roared,  and  just  in  time  ;  "  keep 
your  hands  off." 

"  Is  it  anything  for  the  house  ?  " 

"  No,  indeed ;  the  house  is  for  it" 

Pattie  Batch  scowled  in  perplexity. 

"The  back  yard,  too,"  John  Fairmeadow 
added  ;  "  and  don't  you  forget  that  this  whole 
place — and  all  the  world — belongs  to  just  what's 
in  that  basket." 

"  I'm  sure,"  poor  Pattie  Batch  mused,  scratch- 
ing her  curls  in  bewilderment,  "  I  can't  guess 
what  it  could  be." 

Both  were  now  staring  at  the  basket ;  and  at 
that  very  moment  the  blanket  covering — stirred  f 


no    CHRISTMAS  EYE  at  SWAMP'S  END 

"  Ith  a  dog  !  "  Pattie  Batch  exclaimed. 

"  Dog ! "  the  outraged  John  Fairmeadow 
roared.  "  Nothing  of  the  sort !  No  ma'am/" 

Pattie  Batch  clasped  her  hands.  "  It  ith,  too  1 " 
she  cried.  "  I  thaw  it  move." 

"  It  is  not !  " 

"  Ith  a  kitten,  then." 

"  It  is  not  a  kitten  !  " 

Thereupon — while  the  Shadow,  by  whom  John 
Fairmeadow  had  been  dogged  that  night,  now 
peered  with  acute  attention  through  a  break  in 
the  frost  on  the  window-pane — thereupon,  with- 
out any  warning  save  a  second  slight  movement 
of  the  blanket,  a  sound — and  not  by  any  means  a 
growl — the  thing  was  certainly  not  a  dog — a 
sound  proceeded  from  the  depths  of  the  basket. 

Pattie  Batch  jumped  away. 

"  Well,  well ! "  cried  John  Fairmeadow ; 
"  what's  the  row  ?  " 

Row,  indeed  !  Pattie  Batch  was  gone  white ; 
and  she  swayed  a  little,  and  shivered,  too,  and 
clenched  her  little  hands  to  restrain  her  amazing 
hope.  "  Oh,"  she  moaned,  at  last,  far  short  of 
breath  enough,  "  tell  me  quick :  ith  it — ith  it  a 
—a " 

John  Fairmeadow  threw  back  the  blanket  in  a 
most  dramatic  fashion  ;  and  there,  wrapped  in 
the  neglected  fawn-skin  cloak,  all  dimpled  and 
smiling,  lay  — 

THE  BABY  1 


CHRISTMAS  E^E  at  SWAMPS  END     1 1 1 

*'  By  George  !  "  screamed  Pattie  Batch  ;  "  it  ith 
a  baby  !  " 

"Your  baby,"  John  Fairmeadow  whispered. 
**  God's  Christmas  gift — to  you." 

Pattie  Batch — adorable  young  mother  !— - 
reverently  approached,  and,  bending  with  parted 
lips,  eyes  shining,  and  hands  laid  upon  her 
trembling  heart,  for  the  first  time  gazed  content 
upon  the  little  face.  She  lifted,  then — and  with 
what  awe  and  tenderness  ! — the  tiny  mortal  from 
the  warm  basket,  and  pressed  it,  with  knowing 
arms,  against  her  warmer,  softer  young  breast. 
"My  baby!"  she  crooned,  her  lips  close  to  its 
ear ;  "  my  little  baby — my  own  little  baby  !  " 

The  Shadow  vanished  from  the  window  and 
was  never  seen  again. 

Well,  well,  well !  that  wasn't  all,  you  may  be 
sure.  It  wasn't  anything  like  all  the  interesting 
happenings  of  that  Christmas  Eve  in  the  log 
shack  on  the  edge  of  Swamp's  End.  Pattie 
Batch,  for  example,  talked  so  much  and  so  fast 
that  her  tongue  stumbled  and  her  breath  posi- 
tively refused  to  indulge  her  with  another  word 
without  a  rest.  Girl  1  (says  she) ;  how  in  the 
world  could  she  ever  have  dreamed  that — well 
— and  to  think  that  she  had  actually  wanted  a 
girl  when — sakes  alive  I  a  girl  baby  was  nothing 
to  a  boy  baby,  once  you  knew  about  such  things. 
And  as  for  the  lumber-jacks  in  town,  who  had — 


ii2    CHRISTMAS  EVE  at  SWAMPS  END 

and  just  like  them,  too,  by  George  ! — who  had 
stuffed  John  Fairmeadow's  mackinaw  pocket 
with  a  perfect  fortune  for  the  baby — they  were 
really  dears,  every  one  of  them.  And  as  for 
John  Fairmeadow  himself — well — never  mind  : 
Pattie  Batch  didn't  say  a  single  adequate  word  ; 
but  in  the  mad  extravagance  of  her  joy,  and  in 
a  violent  effort  to  express  her  gratitude,  she  did 
something  that  John  Fairmeadow  heartily  ap- 
proved, but  never  would  have  permitted,  of 
course,  had  he  not  been  taken  unaware.  The 
big  gale  laughed,  now,  and  frolicked  past  the 
cabin,  and  tapped  softly  at  the  door,  as  if  bound, 
through  sheer  importunity,  to  enter  in  and  share 
the  happiness.  The  roar  was  gone  out  of  it :  it 
was  savage  no  longer.  It  hadn't  a  growl  to  its 
name  :  it  hadn't  even  a  ghostly  groan  to  scare  a 
child  with.  Who  was  afraid  of  the  wind,  now — 
of  the  cold — of  the  wild,  black  night  ?  Not  Pattie 
Batch.  Pattie  Batch's  baby  had  tamed  that  gale  1 

By  and  by  Pattie  Batch  resolutely  returned 
the  baby — now  sound  asleep — to  the  basket. 

"  I  s'pose,"  says  she,  "  I  better  get  at  Ginger- 
bread Jenkins'  washing." 

"Washing?"  cries  John  Fairmeadow. 

"Yeth,  yeth,  yeth ! "  Pattie  Batch  declared, 
impatiently.  "  I  got  t'  look  out  for  the  educa- 
thion  o'  my  baby,  don't  I  ?  " 

As  John  Fairmeadow  says  — 

"  You  ought  to  see  that  baby  now  J" 


XIII 

BILLY   THE  BEAST  STARTS   HOME 

IT  will  be  observed  that  by  this  time  John 
Fairmeadow  had  found  himself.  He  had 
not  only  found  himself :  he  had  discovered 
his  parish.  It  was  a  big  parish,  as  has  been 
indicated  ;  there  were  hundreds  of  square  miles 
of  it — miles  of  great  woods  remote  from  the  re- 
straints and  fashioning  influences  of  civilization. 
The  parishioners  numbered  thousands — tens  of 
thousands,  perhaps,  if  John  Fairmeadow  could 
but  have  reached  them.  Not  all  of  these  men, 
but  most  of  them,  were  hilariously  in  pursuit  of 
their  own  ruin  for  lack  of  something  better  to  do 
with  their  leisure  in  town.  In  camp — particularly 
in  the  remoter  camps — they  performed  harsh 
labour  and  were  for  the  time  being  clean-lived 
enough,  perhaps ;  but  in  town  it  was  another 
story,  as  the  little  settlements,  founded  chiefly  to 
purvey  evil  to  the  lumber-jacks,  took  care  that 
it  should  be.  Being  men  of  big  strength  in 
every  physical  way — and  provided  with  every 
opportunity  to  indulge  whatsoever  variety  of 
evil  propensity  they  might  chance  to  possess — 
they  proceeded  to  the  uttermost  of  savagery  and 

"3 


H4       BILLY  the  BEAST  STARTS  HOME 

degradation.  It  was  done  with  shouting  and 
laughter  and  that  large  good-humour  which  is 
bed-fellow  with  the  bloodiest  brawling,  and  the 
carousal  had,  perhaps,  for  the  time,  its  amiable 
aspect ;  but  the  merry  shouters  soon  became  like 
Billy  the  Beast,  who,  having  emerged  from  Pale 
Peter's  saloon,  upon  the  occasion  of  Fairmeadow's 
arrival,  robbed  the  bulldog  of  his  bone  and 
gnawed  it  himself.  Or  they  turned  into  men 
like  Damned  Soul  Jones,  who  was  used  to 
moaning  his  way  into  the  forest,  after  the  spree 
in  town,  conceiving  himself  condemned  to  roast 
forever  in  hell,  without  hope,  nor  even  the  ease 
which  his  mother's  prayers  might  win  from  a 
compassionate  God.  And  every  roisterer  among 
them  was  prey — prey  of  the  most  helpless  de- 
scription— prey  under  the  very  noses  of  the 
authorities — for  the  saloon-keepers  and  gamblers 
of  the  towns. 

"  Expensive  ?  "  laughed  a  saloon-keeper's  wife 
of  Swamp's  End,  flashing  a  ring  on  her  finger. 
"  What  do  I  care  about  expense?  My  husband 
has  a  thousand  men  working  for  him  in  the 
woods ! " 

As  for  John  Fairmeadow  — 

"That's  all  right,  boys,"  he  used  to  say. 
"  I'm  your  minister ;  and  I'll  stand  by  you  as 
long  as  I  have  breath  in  my  body." 

Fairmeadow  was  "  up  against  it."  But  Fair- 
meadow  was  a  man  of  big  body  and  stout  heart. 


BILL  Y  the  BEAST:  S  TAR  TS  HOME       1 1 5 

And  Fairmeadow  "  stood  by."     He  was  the  only 
man  in  all  those  woods  who  did  "  stand  by." 

It  was  Billy  the  Beast  who  drew  John  Fair- 
meadow  into  his  first  grave  altercation.  The 
place  was  Pale  Peter's  saloon,  the  antagonist 
was  Charlie  the  Infidel,  and  the  manner  of  the 
thing  I  shall  relate.  Billy  the  Beast  wanted  to 
go  home.  Billy  the  Beast  always  wanted  to  go 
home.  Never  did  a  pay-day  come  near  but 
Billy  the  Beast  announced  to  the  boys  of  the 
Cant-hook  cutting  that  he  was  bound  home. 
But  Billy  the  Beast  had  never  yet — never  once 
in  the  ten  years  he  had  been  trying — got  farther 
on  the  way  to  the  East  than  Swamp's  End. 
Billy's  mother  had  now  sent  for  him,  however, 
and  Billy  was  bound  to  go.  But  Billy's  old 
mother  had  for  many  years  been  sending  for 
him ;  and  Billy  had  never  yet  managed  to  get 
beyond  Swamp's  End.  The  time  had  come — 
the  time  had  now  come — when  Billy  must  go ; 
and  determined  at  last  to  depart  he  sought  the 
aid  of  John  Fairmeadow.  What  was  a  parson 
for ?  Would  John  Fairmeadow  help  him  ? 
Yes ;  the  parson  would  help.  Would  John 
Fairmeadow  "see  him  through"  Swamp's  End? 
Yes ;  the  parson  would  "see  him  through" 
Swamp's  End.  And  if  Billy  the  Beast  chanced 
inadvisedly  to  stray  into  the  Red  Elephant  with 
his  wages  in  his  pocket,  would  the  parson  knock 


n6       BILLY  the  BEAST  STARTS  HOME 

him  down,  take  his  money  away,  put  a  ticket  in 
his  pocket  and  throw  him  in  the  baggage-car  of 
the  midnight  train  going  east  ? 

The  parson  would  be  delighted  ! 

"  All   right,    parson,"    said    Billy   the    Beast ; 

"  y°u  g°  Jus'  as  far  as  y°u  like." 

"I  will!"  Fairmeadow  returned,  delighted. 
"  I'll  go  the  limit,  Billy  !  " 

"  Kin  I  depend  on  ye  ?  " 

"You  may,  Billy,"  Fairmeadow  answered, 
solemnly,  a  twinkle  in  his  eye ;  "  you  may  de- 
pend on  me." 

Secure  in  this  guardianship,  Billy  the  Beast 
bade  the  boys  of  the  Cant-hook  cutting  a  cere- 
monious farewell.  "Coin'  home,"  said  he. 
"  Ye  see,  boys,  mother's  sent  fer  me,  an'  I'm 
goin'  home."  It  was  the  spring  of  the  year, 
then  :  the  drive  was  over ;  and  Billy  the  Beast, 
his  winter's  wages  in  his  pocket,  took  the  trail  for 
Swamp's  End  in  high  spirits.  "  Goin'  home, 
boys,"  said  he,  to  those  whom  he  met  by  the 
way.  "  Ye  see,  my  mother's  sent  fer  me,  an' 
I'm  goin'  home."  John  Fairmeadow  was  un- 
fortunately not  aware  of  the  precise  day  of 
Billy's  passage  through  Swamp's  End.  Billy 
had  not  informed  him.  Billy  had  promised  to 
inform  him,  of  course :  he  had  been  intimately 
particular  to  secure  Fairmeadow's  presence  at 
Swamp's  End  "  'long  about  Toosday."  But  it 
had  gone  no  farther :  Billy  the  Beast  had 


BILLY  the  BEAST  STARTS  HOME       1 17 

neglected — "  neglected "  was  the  word  he  ap- 
plied to  it  afterwards — to  send  the  warning  of  his 
arrival.  Perhaps — who  knows? — the  poor  fel- 
low, his  lips  dry  for  the  diversions  of  Swamp's 
End,  had  already  begun  to  fail  in  his  purpose. 
However  that  be,  Pale  Peter's  men — whose 
sources  of  such  information  were  at  that  time 
superior  to  John  Fairmeadow's — were  apprised 
of  his  departure  from  the  Cant-hook  cutting  long 
before  he  approached  Swamp's  End ;  and 
Knock-knuckle  Jimmie,  Pale  Peter's  cleverest 
"  runner  "  was  despatched  to  "  fetch  him  in." 

Knock-knuckle  Jimmie  succeeded. 

41 1  wasn't  intendin',"  said  Billy  the  Beast  to 
Charlie  the  Infidel,  "t'  have  a  drink." 

"  It's  on  the  house,  Billy." 

"  Much  'bliged,  Charlie,"  Billy  replied  ;  "  but 
ye  see — ye  see — I  been  sent  fer — an'  I  wasn't 
intendin' " 

"  A  HT  licker?  "  Charlie  blandly  inquired. 

"  It  would  be  a  HT  licker,  Charlie,"  said  Billy, 
"  if  I  was  takin'  anything.  But  ye  see,  I  wasn't 
intendin' " 

Bottle  and  glass  were  slapped  on  the  bar. 

"  I  wasn't  intendin',"  Billy  repeated,  his  voice 
weakly  trailing  off,  "  t' — t' — t'  take  a — a " 

"  Water  with  it,  Billy  ?  " 

"  When  I  take  it,"  Billy  replied,  "  I  take  it 
neat.  But,  ye  see,  Charlie — this  time  I  wasn't 
intendin'  t' " 


n8       BILLY  the  BEAST  STARTS  HOME 

"  Fill  her  up,  man  1  " 

"  Wel-1-11,  jus'  one  !  " 

That  was  the  end.  Billy  the  Beast  tossed  the 
liquor  off  and  wiped  his  beard.  Charlie  the 
Infidel  smiled  a  convivial  approval. 

"  Seen  the  parson  ?"  Billy  inquired. 

It  was  a  shamefaced  question. 

"  Parson's  at  Bottle  River,"  Charlie  replied. 
"  Have  another." 

"  No  more  !  "  Billy  protested.  "  That'll  do  fer 
me.  Ye  see,  I  been  sent  fer,  an'  I'm  on  my  way 
— well,  jus'  one  more." 

It  was  the  end,  indeed. 

It  was  night  before  the  news  of  this  came  to 
the  ears  of  John  Fairmeadow.  This  was  on  the 
trail  from  the  Bottle  River.  It  was  Monday. 
Tuesday  had  been  the  day  fixed  by  Billy  the 
Beast.  The  parson  was  trudging  stolidly  towards 
Swamp's  End  when  he  encountered  the  breath- 
less Plain  Tom  Hitch  and  was  informed  of  the 
perilous  situation  of  Billy  the  Beast.  An  hour 
later,  the  big  minister  broke  wrathfully  into  the 
bar  of  the  Red  Elephant.  Billy  the  Beast  was 
drunk.  Billy  the  Beast  was  very  drunk.  And — 
as  always  at  this  stage  of  his  carouse — he  was 
engaged  in  a  theological  controversy,  chiefly 
with  himself.  "You  take  Sammy  Sink,"  he  was 
arguing,  "  an'  he  was  converted.  Converted  in  a 
minute.  Yes,  sir.  Never  wanted  another  drink. 


BILLY  the  BEAST  STARTS  HOME       119 

Not  Sammy  Sink."  It  was  to  the  case  of 
Sammy  Sink — whom  nobody  knew — that  Billy 
the  Beast  invariably  referred  to  clinch  his  argu- 
ment. Conversion  was  Billy  the  Beast's  mania 
in  intoxication.  "  I  want  ye  t'  know,  boys,"  he 
ran  on,  "that  Almighty  God  kin  convert  a  man 
whenever  He  wants  t'.  Yes,  sir.  He  don't  do 
it  any  too  dashed  often  t'  suit  me ;  but  He  kin 
do  it  when  He  w'ants  t'.  An'  He  done  it  t' 
Sammy  Sink.  Why ! "  he  exclaimed,  "  Al- 
mighty God  could  convert  me  if  He  tried." 
Whether  or  not  Billy  had  already  been  robbed 
of  his  wages  by  pickpockets  or  bartenders,  John 
Fairmeadow  could  not  tell,  as  he  advanced  to 
the  bar.  If  so — if  the  thing  had  already  been 
accomplished — Billy's  hope  of  going  home  was 
blasted.  There  would  be  nothing  for  Billy  to  do 
but  go  back  to  the  woods  until  he  had  accumu- 
lated another  store. 

.  Fairmeadow  laid  a  rough  hand  on  Billy's 
shoulder.  "  Where's  your  money  ? "  he  de- 
manded. 

"Ah,  shucks,  parson!"  Billy   pleaded,  "lea' 
me  alone." 

"  Where's  your  money  ?  " 

"  I'm  jus'  havin'  a  little  fun." 

"  Where's  your  money  ?  " 

"  Ain't  got  no  money." 

It  was  true. 

"  Blowed  my  stake,"  said  Billy  the  Beast. 


120       BILLY  the  BEAST  STARTS  HOME 

Charlie  the  Infidel — himself  a  little  flushed — 
interrupted.  "  Look  here,  parson  I  "  said  he  ; 
"  what  you  buttin'  in  here  for,  anyhow  ?" 

"  Me?  "  the  parson  flashed,  in  a  rage. 

"  Yes — you !  This  ain't  no  place  for  a 
parson." 

Fairmeadow  stared. 

"  What  you  want  t'  butt  in  here  for  ?  " 

"  Charlie,"  said  Fairmeadow,  going  a  little 
pale,  "  this  is  my  job  !  " 

"  Well,"  the  bartender  fumed,  "  we  don't  need 
no  parson  here  t'-night." 

"  What !  "  Fairmeadow  roared. 

Charlie  the  Infidel  hesitated  not  at  all.  He 
came  over  the  bar.  Fairmeadow  leaped  away 
and  stood  waiting.  He  smiled  a  little.  The 
thing  was  to  his  taste.  Charlie's  assault  was 
immediate.  He  struck  at  the  minister.  And  he 
was  a  big  man — a  bigger  man  than  Fairmeadow. 
Had  the  blow  been  effective,  Fairmeadow  would 
not  only  have  measured  his  length  on  the  floor, 
but  would  then  and  there  have  closed  a  useful 
career  at  Swamp's  End,  where  nobody  had  much 
regard  for  a  beaten  man.  Of  this,  Fairmeadow 
was  acutely  aware.  He  saw  to  it  that  the  bar- 
tender's blow  failed.  It  was  a  simple  matter. 
Fairmeadow  bobbed  his  head — and  the  blow 
passed  over.  This  chanced  to  be  an  art  in  which 
the  minister  had  in  a  mild  way  been  trained.  He 
laughed  a  little.  Charlie  returned  to  the  assault 


BILLY  the  BEAST  STARTS  HOME       121 

in  a  fury.  Again  Fairmeadow  avoided  him. 
And  again  Fairmeadow  seemed  to  be  a  little  bit 
amused.  The  crowd — a  group  of  lumber-jacks 
and  their  human  parasites — attended  in  amaze- 
ment. What  manner  of  parson  was  this  ?  The 
manner  of  preacher  was  known  to  them  ;  and 
the  manner  of  fighting  man  was  presently  dis- 
closed. Charlie  the  Infidel  came  at  him  again. 
Again  Fairmeadow  evaded  with  a  smile.  He 
would  not  strike  his  antagonist  until  the  watchers 
had  been  persuaded  that  the  antagonist  could 
not  strike  him.  But  the  fight  must  have  an  end  ; 
and  that  end  must  be  decisive,  Fairmeadow  knew, 
lest  the  fight  have  to  be  fought  all  over  again. 
And  when  Charlie  the  Infidel  came  again  Fair- 
meadow  tapped  him  on  the  chest — a  tap  of  such 
amazing  weight,  however,  that  the  bartender 
reeled. 

"  Now,  boys,"  said  Fairmeadow,  looking  about, 
completely  in  possession  of  his  temper,  even  his 
good  humour,  "  I'll  have  to  put  him  out." 

Charlie  the  Infidel  rushed.  Fairmeadow 
leaped  aside — stepped  forward — three  swift  little 
steps — and  struck.  Charlie  the  Infidel  went 
down.  It  had  been  necessary.  It  had  not  only 
been  necessary,  perhaps,  but  a  providential  op- 
portunity, unprovoked,  to  display  all  those  arts 
of  self- protection  of  which  Fairmeadow  was 
possessed.  Perhaps — if  one  were  to  look  into 
the  matter  with  care — it  was  all  as  wise  and 


122       BILLY  the  BEAST  STARTS  HOME 

helpful  to  Fairmeadow's  parishioners  as  a  sermon 
might  have  been.  But  John  Fairmeadow  was 
distressed  when  he  helped  the  dazed  Infidel  to 
his  feet ;  and  his  distress  was  deep  and  real. 

"I'm  sorry,  old  man,"  said  he. 

"  That's  all  right,  parson,"  Charlie  returned ; 
"  you  got  me  fair  enough." 

Fairmeadow  was  silent. 

"  That's  all  right !  "  Charlie  repeated.  "  Don't 
you  worry  no  more  about  that." 

"  It  needn't  occur  again,"  said  Fairmeadow. 

"  No,"  Charlie  returned,  positively ;  "  it 
wortt!" 

"  I'm  glad,"  said  Fairmeadow,  devoutly. 
"You  see,  Charlie,"  he  began,  in  disgust, 
"your  business  here  of  bartending  is  such  a 
detestable " 

"  Never  mind  that,"  Charlie  broke  in ;  "  we 
talked  that  t'  death  long  ago." 

"  But  God  help  you,  it  is  detestable ! " 

"  Boys,"  said  the  Infidel  to  the  gaping  crowd 
of  woodsmen  and  small  gamblers,  "  what'll  ye 
have  ?  The  drinks  is  certainly  on  me." 

Billy  the  Beast  had  vanished. 

The  Beast  had  vanished.  Nor  could  Fair- 
meadow  find  him  again  that  night.  What 
matter,  after  all  ?  Billy  the  Beast  could  not 
have  "  gone  home."  They  had  robbed  him  of 
his  wages  long  before  John  Fairmeadow's  arrival 


BILLY  the  BEAST  STARTS  HOME       123 

in  the  bar  of  the  Red  Elephant.  Three  days 
later  Fairmeadow  found  him — and  Fairmeadow's 
search  had  been  diligent — in  the  snake-room  of 
the  Cafe  of  Egyptian  Delights,  where  he  had  been 
thrown,  sick  and  utterly  penniless — such  was  the 
purpose  of  the  snake-rooms  of  the  lumber-town 
saloons — when  there  was  no  more  to  be  got  out 
of  him  and  he  could  borrow  no  more.  Billy  vas 
in  a  stupor  of  intoxication,  but  presently  revived 
a  little,  and  turned  very  sick. 

"  That  you,  parson  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,  Billy." 

"  A'  right." 

"  Feel  a  little  better,  now?" 

"  Uh-huh." 

Fairmeadow  eased  the  man's  head  on  the  floor 
of  the  foul  place. 

"  Guess  I  better  not  go  home,"  Billy  muttered. 
"  Not  this  time." 

"  No,"  said  the  parson  ;  "  not  this  time." 

"  Nex'  time,"  said  Billy. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  parson  ;  "  next  time — next 
time,  surely,  God  help  you  1 " 

Billy  the  Beast  tried  again  and  again  to  "go 
home."  "  So  long,  boys  !  "  he  continued  to  say, 
when  he  set  out  for  Swamp's  End,  with  his  wages 
in  his  pocket.  "  So  long,  boys !  I'm  goin' 
home.  Mother's  sent  fer  me.  The  ol'  lady's 
pretty  well  on  in  years,  now.  An'  I  jus'  got  t' 
go."  Again  and  again  the  thing  happened ; 


124       BILLY  the  BEAST  STARTS  HOME 

but  there  came  a  last  time — in  the  end  it  came 
— when  Billy  the  Beast  set  out  for  Swamp's 
End,  bound  home. 

In  all  this  time  John  Fairmeadow  was  a  busy 
man.  None  more  industrious  :  none  whose  work 
lay  nearer  or  needed  doing  more.  And  there  was 
something  added  to  the  most  that  he  could  ac- 
complish. John  Fairmeadow  was  not  the  "  real 
thing"  yet.  He  was  only  a  lay  preacher,  after 
all.  The  boys  believed  in  him,  of  course :  the 
boys  would  listen  to  no  criticism  of  him.  But 
the  boys  wanted  the  "real  thing."  And  with 
this  reasonable  wish  John  Fairmeadow  was  in 
sympathy.  As  Fairmeadow  told  Pale  Peter  in 
the  beginning,  he  had  arranged  all  that  with  the 
Superior  Body  of  his  Church.  Ordination  would 
come  in  due  course.  Fairmeadow  would  be  an 
accredited  minister  by  and  by.  The  Superior 
Body  had  required  an  examination  in  systematic 
theology,  Old  Testament  history,  how  to  com- 
pose a  sermon,  and  the  like ;  but  that  was  all. 
Those  rare  hours  which  John  Fairmeadow  had 
for  himself  he  devoted  to  the  acquirement  of  this 
knowledge.  It  was  a  much  interrupted  pursuit 
of  knowledge :  there  was  so  much  for  a  parson 
to  do  in  the  barrooms  of  Swamp's  End  after 
night — so  many  sudden  calls  upon  the  wisdom 
and  muscle  of  the  minister — that  there  was  little 
enough  time  for  learning  of  the  text-books 


BILLY  the  BEAST  START'S  HOME        125 

about  the  origin  of  sin  and  the  nature  of  God. 
But  John  Fairmeadow  persevered.  He  was  not 
much  interested,  to  be  sure,  in  the  origin  of  sin, 
as  expounded  in  the  big,  black  text-book ;  and 
he  had  his  own  sources  of  information  (not  met- 
aphysical) concerning  the  nature  of  God.  But 
he  persevered,  for  the  boys'  sake,  determined  to 
make  the  best  of  the  very  hard  job ;  and  he 
looked  forward  to  the  Superior  Body's  examina- 
tion with  a  trepidation  so  genuine  and  extreme 
that  it  occasionally  made  him  laugh. 

And  — 

"  If  the  boys  want  an  ordained  minister  in 
these  camps,"  John  Fairmeadow  determined, 
"  they're  going  to  have  one ! " 


XIV 
PALE   PETER'S   DONALD 

IT  was  raining :  an  interminable  drizzle,  oc- 
casionally rising,  with  a  rush  of  wind  from 
the  gray  sky,  to  a  noisy  downpour.  Swamp's 
End — a  dreary  puddle  of  mud  in  wet  weather — 
was  dripping  and  out  of  sorts.  In  Charlie  the 
Infidel's  living  quarters  beyond  the  bar  at  the 
Red  Elephant,  Mrs.  Charlie  the  Infidel,  bored  to 
death  by  the  adventures  of  the  lord  and  lady's- 
maid  of  her  paper-backed  novel,  was  out  of  sorts 
with  all  of  Swamp's  End,  and  yawned  until  the 
poor  lady's  jaws  fairly  cracked ;  and  up-stairs,  in 
Pale  Peter's  rooms,  Pale  Peter's  Donald,  too, 
was  out  of  sorts,  dawdling  over  the  lessons  John 
Fairmeadow  had  set  him,  pausing,  now  and 
again,  to  stare  vacantly  into  the  rainy  weather, 
and  sighing  far  more  than  a  lad  of  blithe  age 
and  rosy  health  should  have  good  occasion  to 
sigh.  Pale  Peter's  Bruiser,  restless  under  a  chair 
in  the  bar,  was  obviously  out  of  sorts ;  and  Pale 
Peter  himself,  reposing  in  an  easy  chair  in  the 
little  office  at  the  end  of  the  bar,  his  feet  on  the 
desk,  a  cigar  in  his  listless  hand,  gazing  blankly 
through  the  window  into  the  muddy  street,  was 
considerably  more  out  of  sorts  than  anybody 
connected  with  his  thriving  establishment.  Pale 

126 


PALE    PETER'S   DONALD         127 

Peter  was  very  much  out  of  sorts,  indeed :  Pale 
Peter  could  not  recall — and  while  he  stared  into 
the  rain  he  had  searched  his  experience — Pale 
Peter  could  not  recall  another  mood  of  such  foot- 
less black  melancholy.  It  could  not  be  the  bar. 
There  was  no  trouble  in  the  bar.  The  Bottle 
River  and  Cant-hook  wagons  had  driven  up, 
gathered  each  its  load  of  stupefied  sots,  and 
staggered  off  again.  And  it  was  not  the  weather. 
Pale  Peter  was  dry,  clean,  warm  and  sheltered. 
It  was  surely  not  the  weather.  Pale  Peter  won- 
dered what  Donnie  was  doing ;  and  then,  with  a 
quick  little  frown,  he  wondered  what  was  the 
matter  with  the  boy,  and  when  he  would  leave 
off  sighing,  and  why  he  sighed  at  all,  and  why 
the  deuce  he  kept  ogling  his  own  father  with 
grave  and  pained  regard.  Pale  Peter  was  de- 
cidedly out  of  sorts. 

The  only  man  who  wasn't  out  of  sorts  at 
Swamp's  End,  it  seemed — and  the  only  man 
who  was  abroad  in  the  rain — was  John  Fair- 
meadow,  who  came  whistling  down  the  street 
towards  the  Red  Elephant — and  was  presently 
smiling  broadly  from  Pale  Peter's  other  easy 
chair,  already  booted  for  the  trail. 

"Jack,"  Pale  Peter  wanted  to  know,  "what 
the  deuce  do  you  do  it  for  ?  " 

"Do  what?" 

"Well,  for  example,"  Pale  Peter  asked, 
"where  are  you  going  now?" 


128        PALE   PETER'S   DONALD 

11  Kettle  Stream,  Peter." 

"  Kettle  Stream  1 "  Pale  Peter  exclaimed,  in 
amazement.  "  On  a  day  like  this?  " 

"  You  see,"  Fairmeadow  explained,  apologet- 
ically, "  I  promised  the  boys  I'd  be  out  to-night 
to  preach  a  little  sermon." 

"  What  in  thunder  do  you  do  it  for  ?  " 

"  Keep  my  word  ?  " 

"  No,  no !  I  mean  the  whole  thing.  Why 
is  it  that  you  spend  your  time  in  this  God-for- 
saken mud-hole  mollycoddling  the  swine  of  these 
woods?" 

Fairmeadow  laughed. 

"  It's  dirty  work  for  a  man  like  you,"  Peter 
added,  in  disgust. 

"What  do  you  do  it  for?"  Fairmeadow  sharply 
demanded. 

"Me!" 

"  You." 

"  Do  what  ?  " 

"  Why  is  it,"  Fairmeadow  accused,  "  that  you 
spend  your  time  in  this  God-forsaken  mud-hole 
sending  the  souls  of  these  poor  fellows  to  dam- 
nation ?  It's  dirty  work,  Peter,"  he  added,  "  for 
a  man  like  you." 

Peter  laughed. 

"  I  can't  understand,"  Fairmeadow  went  on, 
"  why  it  is  that  you  should  turn  yourself  into  the 
detestable  beast  that  you " 

"  Money,  Jack." 


PALE   PETER'S   DONALD         129 

Fairmeadow  sneered. 

"  I  have  a  son,  Jack,"  said  Peter,  quietly. 

"  Yes,"  Fairmeadow  gravely  replied  ;  "  you 
have  a  son." 

"  Jack,"  Pale  Peter  confided,  there  being  some 
quality  in  the  melancholy  gray  weather  to  induce 
confidences,  "  I  love  my  son.  Since  his  mother 
died — she  didn't  die  here,  Jack — she  knew  noth- 
ing of  this,  thank  God  ! — since  his  mother  died, 
I  haven't  cared  much  for  anything  else  in  the 
world.  And  I — I — want  the  boy  to  make  good 
with  his  life.  I  tell  you,  Jack,  my  heart  is  set  on 
his  making  good  !  " 

"  Poor  boy ! "  Fairmeadow  sighed. 

Pale  Peter  started.  "  What  do  you  say  that 
for  ?  "  he  asked,  bewildered. 

"  Poor  little  fellow  !  "  Fairmeadow  repeated. 

There  was  a  squall  of  rain  in  the  bleak  day  be- 
yond the  great  window.  It  came  in  a  rush  from 
the  low  gray  sky  and  drummed  on  the  panes. 

"  For  God's  sake,  Jack,"  Pale  Peter  demanded, 
leaning  forward  in  agitation,  "  why  do  you  call 
him  that  ?  " 

"  I  think,"  Fairmeadow  replied,  "  that  he  loves 
you  very  much." 

"  Yes,  yes ;  of  course  1     But " 

"  That's  why." 

"  I  understand,  of  course,  that  he  loves  me," 
Pale  Peter  began,  still  bewildered  ;  "  but,  you 
see,  Jack " 


130        PALE   PETER'S   DONALD 

"  That's  why,"  Fairmeadow  repeated. 

Pale  Peter's  gray  face,  fixed  and  emotionless 
of  habit,  was  now  in  a  frown  of  perturbation  and 
concern.  The  man  shifted  uneasily  in  his 
chair.  He  puffed  noisily  at  his  cigar,  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  then,  fallen  into  a  troubled  muse,  he 
stared  out  of  the  window,  seeing  nothing  of  the 
driving  rain,  nothing  of  the  drear,  darkening 
sky,  closing  in  upon  the  Red  Elephant,  but 
somehow,  in  his  drawn  face,  reflecting  the  deep- 
ening melancholy  of  the  day.  "  Jack,"  said  he, 
presently,  "  you  and  I  ought  to  get  this  thing 
straight.  I  want  you  to  understand.  You  see, 
old  man,  I — I — love  my  son.  Having  no  son  of 
your  own,  Jack,  you  don't  know,  of  course,  just 
what  this  means.  But  the  plain  fact  is,  Jack,  that 
there  isn't  anything  else  in  the  world  that  I  care 
very  much  about.  I  don't  care  about  myself, 
Jack.  Not  a  bit — not  a  single  bit !  All  I  care 
about  is — Donnie.  That  may  sound  almighty 
queer  to  you,  old  man  ;  but  it's  true,  and  if  you 
had  a  son  of  your  own,  you'd  understand  it.  It 
isn't  sentimental,  you  know  :  it's  just  a  natural 
pride  and  love.  If  you  were  a  father  yourself, 
Jack — why — you'd  understand."  Pale  Peter 
paused.  "  And  now,  old  man,"  he  went  on, 
"I'm  going  to  tell  you  a  little  about  myself." 
Pale  Peter — gray  Pale  Peter  of  the  Red  Elephant 
at  Swamp's  End — Pale  Peter  of  the  thin  gray 
lips,  of  the  cold  gray  eyes,  the  white  hands  and 


PALE    PETER'S   DONALD         131 

the  correctly  tailored,  smart,  brushed  and  pressed 
attire — Pale  Peter  looked  once  into  the  sympa- 
thetic eyes  of  the  big  minister,  and,  content  with 
the  feeling  he  found,  struck  a  match,  applied  it 
to  the  end  of  his  cigar,  puffed,  leaned  back  in 
his  leather-covered  chair,  blew  a  cloud  of  fragrant 
smoke  towards  the  red  curtains  of  the  door  to  the 
bar,  and  went  on.  "  Jack,"  said  he,  "  I  want  my 
boy  to  make  good.  What  I  want  is  that  he 
shall  make  good  with  his  life.  What  I  want — 
and  if  I  were  a  praying  man  it  is  what  I  should 
pray  for — what  I  want  is  just  that  he  shall  make 
good  with  his  life." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  That  he  shall  be  a  man — a  decent  Man." 

"  I  see." 

"  I  didn't  have  a  very  good  time,  Jack,"  Pale 
Peter  went  on,  "  when  I  was  a  boy — like  Donnie. 
My  father  was  in  this  business.  Not  successfully, 
Jack.  And  not  here.  It  was  in  the  East — a  big 
city — and  a  mean,  poverty-stricken  quarter  of 
the  town.  And  I  tell  you,  old  man,  I  can't 
forget  it !  It  was  a  harsh  life  for  a  little  boy 
to  live.  It  was  bitter  cruel.  And  when  I  got 
out  of  school,  Jack,  and  had  to  make  my  own 
way  through  college,  I  made  up  my  mind,  let 
the  text-books  talk  as  they  liked,  that  if  ever  I 
had  a  little  boy  of  my  own  to  look  after,  he 
shouldn't  suffer  what  I  had  suffered.  It  seemed 
to  me  to  be  a  matter  of  money.  That's  all.  Just 


\^2        PALE    PETER'S   DONALD 

money.  And  I  think  so,  now.  It's  money — just 
money."  Pale  Peter  paused  again.  Fairmeadow 
said  nothing — never  a  word  of  protest.  "  When 
Donnie  came,  Jack,"  Pale  Peter  went  on,  "  and 
when  Bonnie's  mother  died,  it  seemed  to  me  that 
I  could  do  better  by  the  boy,  by  doing  something 
like  this,  than  by  keeping  on  in  what  you  might 
call  a  self-respecting  employment,  but  what  was, 
in  point  of  fact,  a  very  poorly  paid  one.  I  knew 
this  business,  Jack,  and  I  knew,  because  I  had 
heard  the  talk  of  it,  the  opportunity  there  was 
out  here  in  the  lumber-woods.  And  so  I  came 
out  here,  when  Donnie's  mother  died,  to  make 
good  for  Donnie  ;  and  I  have  made  good,  and 
I'll  be  rich,  soon,  and  Donnie  and  I  will  go  East 
and  forget  how  the  money  was  made.  He's 
only  a  little  fellow,  Jack.  He'll  forget ;  surely, 
he  won't  remember.  And  he  won't  have  to  go 
through  what  I  went  through  as  a  boy.  He'll 
have  a  chance — a  fair  chance  to  make  a  man  of 
himself ;  and  that's  all  I  want,  Jack — just  to  pro- 
vide a  fair  chance  for  little  Donnie  to  make  a 
man  of  himself." 

"  I  see,"  said  Fairmeadow. 

"  What  have  you  been  doing,  Jack  ?  " 

"  Nothing." 

"  Nothing  at  all  ?  " 

"  Not  much." 

"  What  have  you  done  ?  " 

"  Weil,   of    course,"    Fairmeadow    explained, 


PALE   PETER'S   DONALD         133 

"  I'm  playing  the  game  with  you,  as  I  under- 
stand what  you  meant  when  first  we  talked  to- 
gether. I'm  teaching  Donnie,  for  example,  to 
read  ;  and  I'm " 

"  Good  ! "  Pale  Peter  broke  in.  "  Of  course, 
I  know  that.  But " 

"  Donnie  goes  with  me  everywhere  he  cares 
to  go." 

"  That's  good  !  Of  course,  I  know  that.  And 
you  display,  I  know,  a  fine  manhood  for  him 
to  emulate.  I'm  glad  you've  come,  Jack,  and 
I'm  more  than  glad  you've  stayed." 

"  I'm  teaching  him  something  about  God." 

"  Good  !     That's  playing  the  game,  Jack." 

"  Yes ;  that's  playing  the  game.  But,  Peter, 
as  far  as  you  are  concerned,  the  game  is  going 
to " 

"  I'm  almighty  glad  you're  teaching  him  about 
God." 

"  I  don't  know  very  much  about  God,  of 
course,"  Fairmeadow  apologized ;  "  but  what  I 
do  know — what  I  have  learned  from  reasonable 
sources  and  found  out  for  myself — I'm  teaching, 
as  best  I  can,  in  a  very  quiet  way,  to " 

"  That's  good  ! "  Pale  Peter  interrupted.  "  I'm 
glad  of  it !  " 

"  There's  nothing  else,  I  think." 

"  Has  he — has  he  said  anything  about — me  ?  " 

"  Nothing."      . 

"  Nothing  " — and  Pale  Peter  jerked  his  gray 


134        PALE    PETER'S   DONALD 

head  towards  the  red-curtained  door  to  the  bar — 
"about  this?" 

"  Not  yet." 

"  That's  good,"  said  Pale  Peter.  "  He's  too 
young,  yet,  to  understand." 

"  This  business  of  Billy  the  Beast,"  said 
Fairmeadow,  at  a  venture,  "  is  not  much  to  the 
boy's  taste." 

"  Oh,  well,  pshaw  ! "  Pale  Peter  ejaculated. 
"  Billy  the  Beast  must  be  let  alone.  If  Donnie 
wants  him  to  go  home,  he  can  go.  I'll  attend  to 
that,  Jack.  I'll  see  to  it  that  nobody " 

"  Not  at  all !  "  Fairmeadow  interrupted. 

"No?" 

"  Not  at  all !  If  Billy  the  Beast  goes  home, 
he  must  go  of  his  own  notion,  and  by  his  own 
strength,  helped  out  by  God  Almighty,  and  by 
nobody  else." 

"  That's  all  right,  Jack." 

Fairmeadow  looked  Pale  Peter  over  in  a 
muse.  "  Peter  !  "  said  he. 

"Jack?" 

"  Notwithstanding  all  that  you  have  told  me,  I 
should  like  to  say  something." 

"  Go  ahead,  Jack." 

"  I  have  to  say  it,  Peter." 

"  That's  all  right,  Jack.  Go  right  ahead.  Say 
anything  you  like." 

"  You  are  a  damned  rascal !  " 

Pale  Peter  sighed.     "That's  all  right,  Jack," 


PALE   PETER'S   DONALD         135 

he  began.     "  Of  course,  I  know  your  point  of 

view  ;  but " 

Donnie  came  in. 

"  Hello,  Jack  1 "  said  the  boy.  "  I  didn't  know 
you  were  here." 

"  Hello,  boy !  " 

"  Hello,  kid  !  "  said  Pale  Peter. 

"  Hello,  pop ! " 

"  What  is  it,  Donnie  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  sir.  I  just  came  down  for  a  minute 
— to  see — what  you  were  doing." 

The  boy  advanced,  then,  towards  John  Fair- 
meadow's  chair  ;  but  as  though  bethinking  him- 
self, all  at  once,  he  turned,  with  a  little  flush, 
and  moved  towards  his  father,  but  without  at  all 
looking  in  the  man's  anxious  gray  eyes.  Indeed, 
he  seemed  to  avoid  his  father's  glance ;  but  he 
settled  himself  on  his  father's  knee,  without  any 
sign  of  reluctance,  and  began  to  play  with  the 
rings  on  his  father's  long  white  fingers,  listening 
absently,  the  while,  to  the  inconsequent  chatter 
which  the  two  men  had  taken  up  upon  his  en- 
trance. He  was  not  in  Pale  Peter's  image  ;  he 
was  obviously  his  mother's  son — a  brown-eyed 
youngster,  of  a  dreaming  way,  oversensitive, 
perhaps,  and  given  to  moods.  Pale  Peter  had 
him  dressed  out  in  the  late  fashion  of  the  East ; 
he  was  quite  as  well  tailored,  quite  as  well 
groomed,  quite  as  good-mannered,  quite  as 


136        PALE   PETER'S   DONALD 

faultless  as  to  linen,  as  Pale  Peter  himself,  and 
his  accent  was  as  soft  and  agreeable.  He  was 
restless  on  his  father's  knee.  It  seemed  to  Fair- 
meadow,  who  watched  this  play  of  feeling  with 
acute  anxiety,  that  the  lad  was  shamefaced  and 
troubled  in  his  father's  company.  But  Fair- 
meadow  could  not  make  sure ;  and  he  hoped, 
for  Pale  Peter's  sake,  that  his  doubtful  inference 
was  altogether  mistaken.  The  boy  did  not  stay 
long  in  the  little  office  ;  he  sighed,  presently, 
and  went  away,  to  proceed  with  his  lessons,  said 
he,  so  that  he  might  not  make  himself  ashamed 
when  John  Fairmeadow  should  get  back  from 
preaching  the  little  sermon  to  the  boys  on  Kettle 
Stream. 

When  Donald  had  gone,  Pale  Peter  turned 
anxiously  to  Fairmeadow.  "  He's  all  right,  isn't 
he?  "  he  asked.  "  He  looks  well,  doesn't  he?  " 

"  Quite  hearty,"  Fairmeadow  laughed. 

"  He's  been  so  blue,  of  late,"  the  saloon-keeper 
went  on,  doubtfully,  "  that  I  get  frightened, 
sometimes.  I'm  glad  you  think  he's  all  right, 
Jack.  I — I — shouldn't  like  to  lose  him.  You 
don't  think,  do  you,  Jack,  that  I'm  likely  to  lose 
him,  out  here  ?  " 

"  Not  in  the  way  you  mean." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that,  Jack  ?  " 

"  The  boy's  in  good  health." 

Pale  Peter  was  relieved.  "  I'm  glad  you  think 
so,"  said  he.  "  I  don't  want  to  lose  him,  Jack. 


PALE    PETER'S    DONALD        137 

He's  all  I  got.     My  God,  I  don't  want  to  lose 
him  ! " 


Fairmeadow  rose  to  take  the  trail  for  Kettle 
Stream. 

"  Jack,"  said  Pale  Peter,  returning  to  the  first 
question,  "  what  do  you  do  it  for  ? " 
"  I  want  to." 

"  It  looks  like  a  mean  job  to  me." 
"  It's  a  man's  job  !     And  I  like  it." 
"  Yes  ;  but — but — what  do  you  do  it  for  ?  " 
"Once,  Peter,"  Fairmeadow  answered,  gravely, 
"  I  had  my  own  fingers  burned." 
"  You ! " 

"  I  was  pretty  well  scorched,  Peter." 
Pale  Peter  stared.     "  You  don't  look  it,  Jack," 
said  he,  at  last. 

"No,"  Fairmeadow  replied;  "not  now." 
Peter  whistled  his  amazement.  "  You  !  "  he 
ejaculated.  "  Well,  well !  And  that's  why  !  I 
understand.  I  understand — now.  But  you're 
up  against  it,  Jack.  You're  up  against  far 
more  than  you  can  overcome.  The  liquor  men 
are  not  going  to  let  you  do  anything  big  out 
here.  They're  not  going  to  let  you  interfere 
very  much  with  business,  Jack.  You  can  pick  a 
few  river-pigs  and  filthy  lumber-jacks  out  of  the 
fire,  of  course  ;  and  you  can  sober  a  lot  of  them 
up,  when  they  need  it,  and  you  can  save  some 
of  them  a  little  money,  and  you  can  teach  them 


138        PALE    PETER'S    DONALD 

all  to  sing  hymns.  But  you're  not  going  to  be 
allowed  to  do  very  much  more.  You're  up 
against  it,  Jack.  You're  up  against  the  whole 
system.  You  can't  put  a  stop  to  anything.  You 
can  go  just  so  far  and  no  farther.  Raw  Jack 
Flack  of  Big  Rapids  can  put  a  stop  to  all  the 
good  you're  trying  to  do.  The  police  are  with 
us  ;  the  judges  are  with  us  ;  the  district  attorney 
is  with  us  :  so  what's  the  use  ?  The  attorney- 
general  won't  listen  to  you.  You  can't  do  any- 
thing. You  know  that  a  lumber-jack  hasn't 
the  ghost  of  a  show  in  the  settlements.  He  can 
be  filled  up  and  robbed  just  whenever  a  saloon- 
keeper wants  to  fill  him  up  and  rob  him.  Not  a 
magistrate  in  seven  counties  will  lift  a  finger  to 
help  him.  What's  the  use,  Jack?  What's  the 
use  ?  Why  don't  you  go  somewhere  where  your 
work  will  count  ?  What  do  you  waste  yourself 
here  for?" 

"  My  work  is  counting." 

"  Oh,  pshaw  ! " 

"  It  is,  Peter." 

"  One  of  these  days,"  Pale  Peter  scoffed, 
"  you'll  get  Billy  the  Beast  through  Swamp's 
End  with  his  wages  in  his  pocket ;  and  you'll 
call  that  a  day's  work ! " 

"  By  Jove  !  "  Fairmeadow  laughed,  grimly, 
"  it  would  be  a  day's  work." 

"  What  would  it  matter  ?  " 

"  A  good  deal — to  me  and  to  Donnie.     And 


PALE   PETER'S   DONALD         139 

a  great  deal  more  to  Billy  the  Beast  and — to  his 
mother." 

Pale  Peter  sighed. 

"  Peter,"  said  Fairmeadow,  lifting  his  pack  to 
his  shoulder,  "  I  carry  the  standard  of  righteous- 
ness in  these  woods.  Doubtless  I'm  a  very 
wretched  sort  of  man  to  lift  a  flag  like  that.  But 
I'm  the  only  man  to  do  it,  Peter,  and  I'm  going 
to  keep  on.  Perhaps  I'm  nothing  more  than 
a  protest.  But  I  propose  to  keep  right  on  inter- 
posing my  life  between  these  poor  fellows  and 
their  destruction.  There  are  boys  in  the  camps 
— there  are  hundreds  of  mother's  sons  there — 
without  a  hand  to  help  them  or  a  voice  to  cry 
out  against  their  ruination.  I  interpose,  Peter — 
I  interpose  ! "  Fairmeadow  squared  his  shoul- 
ders and  threw  back  his  fine  head.  "  I  like  it  1 " 
he  cried.  "  I'm  glad  I'm  alive.  I'm  glad  that 
I  trod  the  path  I  did.  I'm  glad  because  it  has 
brought  me  to  this  place  and  to  this  work  in  the 
world.  I  interpose,  Peter — I  interpose  !  " 

With  that  he  went  out. 

Pale  Peter  sat  brooding  in  the  gray  light.  His 
mood  had  not  been  relieved  by  the  minister's 
gallant  purpose  and  way.  Rather,  it  had  been 
deepened.  Down  came  the  rain :  now  in  a 
sweeping,  passionate  rush  from  the  drear  sky, 
now  in  a  disheartening  drizzle.  Pale  Peter 
brooded  darkly.  It  was  true  that  he  loved  his 


140        PALE    PETER'S   DONALD 

son.  It  was  true  that  his  hope  lay  altogether  in 
the  boy.  It  was  true,  too,  that  the  design  of  all 
his  dealings  at  Swamp's  End  was  to  provide  a 
sure  and  untroubled  future  for  the  son  he  loved. 
And  Donald,  he  fancied,  was  yet  young ;  the 
boy  would  not  be  scarred  by  what  went  on  about 
him — and  he  would  forget.  Why  not,  at  any 
rate,  let  him  know  a  little  about  life  ?  Why  not 
disclose  to  him  all  that  he  should  avoid  in  life  ? 
— the  way  of  the  wicked  and  the  wages  of  sin. 
The  boy  was  well.  Pshaw !  the  boy  was  in 
rosy  health.  There  was  no  danger ;  neither 
body  nor  soul  was  in  peril.  John  Fairmeadow 
would  look  out  for  his  soul.  Pale  Peter  would 
look  out  for  his  body.  There  was  no  good 
cause  for  alarm — not  yet.  And  it  would  not  be 
long,  now,  before  the  boy's  future  could  be 
made  secure.  Another  year  or  two  ;  no  more 
than  that.  As  for  the  strange  mood  by  which 
he  was  now  possessed  — 

Donnie  came  in  again. 

"  Hello,  kid  ! " 

"  Hello,  pop  ! " 

"  What's  the  matter,  boy  ?  " 

"  Nothing." 

"  Nothing  ?  " 

"  Nothing." 

Pale  Peter's  frown  was  anxious  when  he  took 
the  boy  on  his  knee. 


XV 

FIST    PLAY 

IT  will  be  observed  that  Fairmeadow  had  by 
this  time  shaken  himself  into  place  at 
Swamp's  End.  Perhaps  the  fashioning  cir- 
cumstances of  his  profession  had  shaken  him  into 
place :  at  any  rate,  he  was  established — an  ac- 
cepted institution  in  a  hundred  square  miles  of 
forest.  "I'm  here  to  preach  and  practice  the 
Gospel  of  Jesus  Christ,"  said  he ;  "  and  I'm  on 
the  job!"  He  liked  the  job:  he  liked  the 
preaching  less,  perhaps,  than  the  vigorous  prac- 
tice of  righteousness  in  which  he  was  accustomed 
to  indulge.  He  liked  the  trails — he  liked  the 
great  pines  in  the  reaches  of  the  forest — he  liked 
the  wind  and  snow  of  winter — he  liked  the  roar 
of  the  bunk-house  fires.  Moreover,  he  liked 
his  rough  parishioners.  The  slight  attraction  to 
which  he  had  confessed  to  Gingerbread  Jenkins 
upon  the  occasion  of  his  arrival  at  Swamp's  End 
had  grown  into  genuine  affection.  Lumber- 
jacks, river-pigs,  saloon-keepers,  and  all :  what- 
ever their  sins,  John  Fairmeadow  liked  'em,  and 
was  heartily  liked  in  return.  But  he  had  no 
church :  he  had  no  fixed  habitation,  indeed — no 
more  than  the  bare  little  room  over  the  Mother- 

141 


142  FIST   PL  A  Y 

Used-To-Make-It  Restaurant  at  Swamp's  End — 
and  he  had  no  possessions  that  he  could  not 
carry  in  the  pack  on  his  back. 

It  was  his  custom  to  go  from  bunk-house  to 
bunk-house  through  all  his  parish — to  eat  in 
the  cook-houses  and  to  sleep  where  he  could. 
And  he  tramped  the  logging-roads  upon  his 
business  whatever  the  weather :  twenty  miles 
in  a  blizzard  at  thirty  below  did  not  daunt 
him.  He  did  much  more  than  preach :  he 
scolded  the  boys,  he  besought  them,  he  pleaded 
with  them,  he  knocked  them  down — and  he 
wrote  letters  for  them — and  he  yarned  with  them 
— and  he  looked  after  them  when  they  fell  ill — 
and  he  buried  them  when  they  died — serving 
them,  at  all  times,  indeed,  like  a  minister  of  the 
old  school.  Queer  places  for  sermons,  perhaps, 
these  long,  low,  stifling  bunk-houses :  but  suffi- 
cient to  the  need  of  John  Fairmeadow  and  the 
lusty  fellows  who  listened — the  lusty  fellows  who 
sang,  too,  "  Jesus,  Lover  of  My  Soul "  with  the 
most  hearty  gusto  in  the  world,  and  afterwards 
most  profanely  maintained  that  it  was  damned 
good  sport. 

"  Sing  her  again  1 "  a  lumber- jack  once  shouted 
from  his  bunk. 

They  sang  it  again. 

"Why  the  hell,"  the  delighted  lumber-jack 
demanded,  "  don't  they  have  nice  toons  like  that 
in  the  shows  ?  " 


FIST  PLA  Y  143 

It  had  not  always  been  easy  sailing.  But  the 
big,  wise,  earnest,  kindly  man — wise  with  his 
strength  and  wise  with  his  comfort  and  blame- 
had  won  his  way.  Not  everywhere,  perhaps  : 
not,  for  example,  in  the  remoter  camps  of  his 
parish,  where  only  his  name  was  known.  He 
came,  once — it  was  falling  night  of  a  blustering 
winter's  day — to  a  far  camp  of  the  Logosh 
Reservation.  A  mean  camp,  this :  a  dirty  bunk- 
house  and  a  frowzy  crew. 

"  Wouldn't  mind,  would  you,"  said  he,  to  the 
boss,  "  if  I  preached  a  little  sermon  to  the  boys 
to-night?" 

"If  ye  done  what?" 

"  If  I  preached  a  little  sermon  to  the  boys," 
Fairmeadow  repeated,  mildly. 

"What  for?" 

"Well,"  Fairmeadow  gently  drawled,  "that's 
my  business." 

"  Hell  of  a  business,"  the  boss  observed,  "  for 
a  big  man  like  you." 

Fairmeadow  sighed. 

"  You  might  make  a  livin',"  the  boss  went  on 
looking  Fairmeadow  over,  "as  a  fightin'  man." 

"I  do  a  little  of  that,  too,"  said  Fairmeadow. 

"You  can  fight  just  as  much  as  you've  the 
mind  to  in  this  camp,"  the  boss  returned  ;  "  but 
we  don't  allow  no  preachin'." 

"No?" 

"Not!" 


144  FIST   PLA  Y 

"  It  happens,  my  friend,"  said  Fairmeadow, 
"  that  I  have  a  pass  in  my  pocket.  It  is  signed 
by  your  employer." 

"  You  couldn't  preach  in  this  camp,"  said  the 
boss,  promptly,  "if  you  had  a  pass  from  God 
Almighty." 

"No?" 

"Not!" 

Fairmeadow  sighed.  He  pondered  for  a  mo- 
ment. His  brow  was  all  wrinkled  with  inde- 
cision. He  sighed  again.  All  this  time  the 
boss  watched  him  in  faint  amusement.  Fair- 
meadow,  however,  seemed  not  to  observe  the 
amusement.  He  was  deep,  it  seemed,  in  inde- 
cision. Presently,  however,  he  looked  up.  He 
measured  the  boss  with  a  calculating  eye.  The 
boss  measured  him — with  a  calculating  eye, 
also.  Fairmeadow  smiled.  He  laid  off  his 
pack,  whistling  pleasantly  the  while.  The 
whistling  ceased.  He  began  to  hum  an  evan- 
gelical hymn — in  a  way  the  most  preoccupied — 
very  softly  and  very  devoutly — as  though  no 
disturbance  whatsoever  impended.  It  was  a 
gentle  hymn, 

"  Sweet  hour  of  prayer, 
Sweet  hour  of  prayer " 


and  Fairmeadow  seemed  to  like  the  rhythm  of  it. 
Presently,  he  addressed  himself  to  some  serious 
intention,  and  laid  off  his  mackinaw,  which  he 


FIST  PL  A  Y  145 

deposited  carefully  on  his  pack.  His  coat  fol- 
lowed. He  rolled  up  his  sleeves.  Then — and 
in  the  way  of  gentle  regret — he  fell  into  an 
attitude  so  precisely  professional — the  profes- 
sion being  that  of  a  fighting  man — that  the 
boss  started. 

"I  think,"  said  Fairmeadow,  beginning  a 
cautious  advance,  "  that  I'll  preach." 

"  I  reckon  you  will,"  said  the  boss. 

There  was  no  fight. 

After  supper,  Fairmeadow  borrowed  an  empty 
barrel  from  the  cook,  and  gravely  rolled  it  into 
the  bunk-house.  This  was  the  pulpit :  a  barrel 
was  always  Fairmeadow's  pulpit.  And  an  ex- 
cellent pulpit  it  was,  you  may  believe !  It 
served  John  Fairmeadow's  purpose  perfectly. 
John  Fairmeadow  had  rather  have  a  barrel  for  a 
pulpit — provided  the  head  did  not  give  way 
before  the  fury  of  his  discourse — than  any  other 
sort  of  pulpit  in  the  world.  Fairmeadow  now 
covered  the  barrel  with  a  gray  blanket,  which  he 
had  borrowed  from  a  teamster — such  a  blanket 
as  poor  Gray  Billy  Batch  had  lain  under  upon 
the  occasion  of  his  obsequies  at  Swamp's  End. 
The  transformation  of  the  bunk-house  into  a 
church  was  now  complete.  There  was  nothing 
left  to  desire.  Fairmeadow  distributed  the 
hymn-books,  which  he  had  carried  in  his  pack, 
and  advised  the  congregation  to  trim  the  Ian- 


146  FIST  PL  A  Y 

terns,  which  the  congregation  at  once  proceeded 
to  do.  When  he  had  requested  the  congre- 
gation not  to  smoke  in  church,  Fairmeadow 
went  gravely  into  the  pulpit  and  took  off  his 
coat.  He  knelt,  for  a  moment,  in  prayer — 
nobody  so  punctilious  as  John  Fairmeadow  in 
respect  to  the  forms — whereupon  he  got  up, 
pulled  a  little  copy  of  the  Scriptures  from  his 
hip-pocket,  loosened  the  collar  of  his  brown 
flannel  shirt,  looked  the  congregation  over, 
picked  up  a  hymn-book  from  the  gray  blanket, 
turned  up  the  lantern  hanging  overhead,  and 
announced  the  hymn. 

"  Number  sixty-three,  boys,"  said  he. 

It  was  a  curious  church  and  a  curious  congre- 
gation ;  but  it  was  a  church — Fairmeadow  had 
insisted  upon  its  being  a  church — and  it  was  an 
interested  congregation.  It  was  blowing  outside 
in  the  forest :  the  wind  went  swishing  past  the 
log  cabin — a  wind  with  snow,  wildly  blowing. 
But  it  was  hot  and  stifling  within.  There  was  a 
roaring  fire  in  the  big  stove  in  the  middle  of  the 
long,  narrow  room.  The  lumber-jacks  were 
grouped  about  it,  sprawling  comfortably  on 
the  fire-wood,  hymn-books  in  hand.  Others  sat 
on  the  benches  which  ran  along  each  side  of  the 
room  below  the  bunks.  Others,  still,  lay  flat  in 
the  bunks,  their  frowzy  heads  protruding  in  curi- 
osity. There  were  two  rows  of  bunks,  one  on 
each  side ;  and  each  row  was  a  "  double-decker  " 


FIST  PLA  Y  147 

— head  to  the  wall  and  foot  towards  the  middle 
of  the  room.  Mackinaws,  woolen  socks  and 
shirts,  mittens,  great  boots,  hung  from  the  racks 
above  the  beds,  steaming  in  the  heat.  All  this 
was  in  the  light  of  many  lanterns — light  and 
shadow  of  these  dim-burning,  flickering  lamps. 
It  was  a  congregation  of  all  ages  of  men,  from 
fresh,  rosy  youngsters,  with  a  first  beard  show- 
ing, to  old  gray-heads,  of  fifty  years'  standing 
in  the  lumber-woods.  Not  one  of  them  all,  per- 
haps— not  even  the  youngest  lad  among  them 
— but  knew  the  saloons  of  Swamp's  End.  The 
debauch  was  the  traditional  diversion  with  them, 
as  it  had  been  when  Gingerbread  Jenkins  was 
a  boy ;  it  was  the  theme  of  all  the  brave  stories 
to  which  the  youngsters  listened  when  the  day's 
work  was  done. 

When  the  hymn  was  sung — and  when  Fair- 
meadow  had  prayed — and  when  they  had  sung 
once  more — Fairmeadow  announced  his  text,  ac- 
cording to  his  custom. 

"  Boys,"  he  began,  directly,  "this little  passage 
from " 

In  the  other  end  of  the  long  room  somebody 
began  to  grind  an  axe. 

"  Boys,"  Fairmeadow  repeated,  "  this  lit- 
tle  " 

The  grinding  went  on. 

"  This  little  passage " 

There  was  a  titter. 


148  FIST   PLAY 

"  Boys,"  Fairmeadow  began  again,  "  this  pas- 
sage  " 

The  grinding  continued. 

"  I  say,  back  there  !  "  Fairmeadow  called,  com- 
ing abruptly  out  of  his  sermon,  "  would  you 
mind  grinding  that  axe  at  another  time  ?  " 

At  once  the  grinding  ceased. 

"  This  little  passage,"  Fairmeadow  began, 
"  from  the " 

There  was  more  grinding. 

"  Passage  from  the " 

The  congregation  tittered. 

"  If  you  boys  back  there  wouldn't  mind  grind- 
ing that  axe  at  another  time,"  Fairmeadow  called, 
"  we'd  all  be  much  obliged." 

At  once  the  grinding  ceased. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  the  preacher. 

Fairmeadow  was  on  the  point  of  opening  his 
lips  to  go  on  with  the  preaching  when  the  wheel 
began  to  turn  and  the  axe-blade  to  screech  its 
complaint.  "  Some  of  the  boys,  here,"  he  said, 
instead,  in  a  very  mild  way,  "  want  to  hear  me 
preach.  Isn't  that  so,  boys?"  There  was  in- 
stant assent.  It  was  evidently  so.  A  good 
many  of  the  boys — almost  every  one  of  the  boys 
— wanted  to  hear  John  Fairmeadow  preach  ;  and 
they  said  so.  "  All  right,"  said  Fairmeadow,  "I'll 
preach.  But  I  can't  very  well  preach,"  he  went 
on,  addressing  the  shadowy  rear  of  the  room,  "  if 
you  boys  back  there  keep  on  grinding  that  axe." 


FIST   PL  A  Y  149 

There  was  a  mocking  whistle  from  the  shadow 
in  the  rear. 

"  I  say,"  said  Fairmeadow,  "  that  I  can't  preach 
if  anybody  grinds  an  axe." 

At  once  the  grinding  was  begun. 

"  Friend,  back  there  !  "  Fairmeadow  called,  in 
pathetic  protest,  "  can't  you  oblige  the  boys  by 
doing  that  at  another  time  ?  " 

Apparently  not. 

"  No  ?  "  Fairmeadow  grieved. 

Again  the  mocking  whistle. 

"  Well,"  Fairmeadow  complained,  "  I've  got 
to  preach  !  "  Fairmeadow  sighed  as  he  walked 
slowly  to  the  rear  of  the  room.  There  was  a  big 
man — the  big  boss  whom  Fairmeadow  had 
earlier  encountered — at  work  over  the  grindstone. 
Fairmeadow  laid  a  hand  on  his  shoulder  in  a 
way  not  easily  misunderstood.  "  My  friend,"  he 
began,  softly,  "  if  you " 

The  boss  struck  at  him. 

"  Keep  back,  boys ! "  an  old  Irishman  screamed, 
catching  up  a  peavy-pole.  "  Give  the  parson  a 
show !  Keep  out  o'  this  or  I'll  brain  ye  !  " 

Fairmeadow  caught  his  big  opponent  about 
the  waist — flung  him  against  the  door  (the 
preacher  was  wisely  no  man  for  half  measures) — 
caught  him  on  the  rebound — put  him  head  fore- 
most in  a  barrel  of  water  and  absent-mindedly 
held  him  there  until  the  old  Irishman  asked, 
softly,  "  Say,  parson,  ye  ain't  goin'  t'  drown  him, 


ISO  FIST   PLAY 

are  ye  ?  "  It  was  all  over  in  a  flash.  "  I  beg 
your  pardon  !  "  said  Fairmeadow,  contritely,  to 
his  antagonist,  now  lying,  dripping  and  gasping, 
on  the  bunk-house  floor,  while  the  bunk-house 
broke  into  a  tumult  of  jeering.  "  I  beg  your 
pardon  1 "  Fairmeadow  repeated.  "  You  pro- 
voked me,  you  see ;  and  I — I — I  really  must 
preach.  You  see,"  he  added,  apologetically, 
"  that's  my  business."  Then  he  went  back  to 
his  pulpit,  not  ruffled  at  all,  and  proceeded  with 
his  sermon,  to  which  the  congregation  listened 
with  deep  attention,  and  possibly  to  their  profit. 
At  any  rate,  the  altercation  forgotten,  when  Fair- 
meadow  raised  a  dog-eared  little  hymn-book  to 
the  smoky  light  of  the  lantern  overhead,  and 
announced,  "  Boys,  let's  sing  number  fifty-six. 
Jesus,  lover  of  my  soul,  let  me  to  Thy  bosom  fly. 
You  know  the  tune,  boys.  Everybody  sing  " — 
they  sang  heartily  enough. 

And  the  whipped  boss  was  not  thereafter  Fair- 
meadow's  enemy.  Not  at  all !  To  the  contrary  : 
the  big  boss,  who  might  have  regarded  an  aca- 
demic sermonizer  with  contempt,  had  nothing  but 
respect  for  the  parson  who  could  thrash  him. 
That  he  had  been  thrashed  was  beyond  reason- 
able question  ;  but,  as  it  turned  out,  he  was  never 
content  with  the  verdict,  and  would  beg  John 
Fairmeadow  for  another  chance,  which,  however, 
John  Fairmeadow  never  would  allow  him,  good- 


FIST  PLA  Y  151 

humoured  though  he  could  be  upon  occasions. 
And  so  John  Fairmeadow  lived  these  days  in  the 
woods.  It  was  tramp  the  logging-roads  from 
camp  to  camp.  It  was  a  sermon  every  night — 
a  word  straight  from  his  big  heart — a  message 
straight  from  an  old-fashioned  gospel ;  and  it 
was  three  sermons  of  a  Sunday,  if  three  bunk- 
houses  could  be  reached.  His  message  went  to 
all  the  men  of  the  woods — to  loggers  and  lum- 
ber-jacks: to  road-monkeys,  cookees,  cooks, 
punk-hunters,  wood-butchers,  swampers  and  the 
what-nots  of  the  camps.  It  was  a  straightfor- 
ward message  directed  against  evil.  It  was  a 
big  man's  message  to  big  men.  There  was  no 
quibbling.  There  was  no  compromise.  There 
were  no  doubts.  John  Fairmeadow  was  a  Chris- 
tian minister  of  the  old  school.  "  I  have  come  to 
these  woods,"  he  used  to  say,  "  to  preach  the 
Gospel  of  Jesus  Christ.  That's  all  I  preach. 
And,  boys,"  he  would  add,  "  you've  got  to  take 
it  straight.  There'll  be  no  water  in  it."  It  was, 
indeed,  an  unwatered  gospel.  The  preaching 
and  practice  of  it  made  John  Fairmeadow  a  be- 
loved minister  in  every  camp  of  his  great  parish. 

Pale  Peter's  Donald  often  trotted  the  logging- 
roads  and  forest  trails  at  the  heels  of  the  big 
minister.  Fairmeadow  was  frankly  glad  to  have 
the  boy's  earnest  company. '  But  Fairmeadow 
was  not  proselyting :  as  the  boy's  soul  took  its 


152  FIST   PLA  Y 

chances  in  Pale  Peter's  bar,  just  so  must  it  take 
its  chances  in  the  bunk-houses  when  John  Fair- 
meadow  stood  up  to  preach. 

"  Where  you  going,  Jack  ?  " 

"Yellow-Tail,  kid." 

"May  I  go  along?" 

"Sure  !     Come  on  1 " 

Pale  Peter  never  objected.  The  boy  was 
away  with  the  preacher  for  days  together.  And 
he  liked  it.  There  was  little  enough  to  do  at 
Swamp's  End ;  and  there  was  always  excitement 
afoot  where  John  Fairmeadow  went.  Pale 
Peter's  Donald  listened  to  the  preaching,  ob- 
served its  effect,  became  acquainted  with  the 
men  in  whom  Fairmeadow  was  particularly  in- 
terested, discussed  means  with  the  preacher ; 
and  he  was  presently  in  the  way  of  criticizing  the 
sermons  with  such  boyish  wisdom  as  he  had,  and 
of  offering  well-meaning  boyish  advice.  This 
was  inevitable :  it  was  all  a  game,  and  Pale 
Peter's  Donald,  taking  sides  with  John  Fair- 
meadow,  played  it  with  interest — with  precisely 
the  same  sort  of  interest  that  he  would  have  fol- 
lowed the  fortunes  of  a  politician  had  John  Fair- 
meadow  been  a  politician  on  the  stump.  When 
it  came  to  the  business  of  preaching  in  the  bunk- 
houses,  Fairmeadow  made  no  effort  to  save  the 
lad's  feelings.  He  preached  :  that  was  his  busi- 
ness— less  to  expound  than  to  denounce  and 
expose.  But  Fairmeadow  was  at  other  times 


FIST   PL  A  Y  153 

infinitely  careful  to  let  fall  no  word  of  contempt 
or  blame  for  the  boy's  father.  The  matter  of 
Pale  Peter's  occupation  was  tacitly  ignored  by 
the  two.  Fairmeadow  perceived  a  tragedy  of 
feeling  approaching.  A  year,  at  most,  he 
fancied,  would  bring  the  issue.  Perhaps  longer ; 
but  it  must  inevitably  come. 

"  How's  Donnie  coming  along  ? "  Pale  Peter 
would  ask. 

"  Bonnie's  all  right." 

"  Has  he  said  anything  about — about  the 
business?" 

"  Not  yet." 

"Is  he  thinking  about  it  very  much,  Jack ? " 

"  Quite  a  bit." 

"  Getting  sore  on  it,  Jack  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know." 

" Getting  sore  on  me,  Jack?" 

"  Oh,  no  !  " 

"  Well,"  said  Pale  Peter,  "  he's  young  yet.  I 
can  go  along  for  a  few  years,  I  guess,  before  he'll 
understand." 

Fairmeadow  said  nothing. 

"  Don't  you  think  so,  Jack?" 

"  It's  none  of  my  business,  Peter,"  Fair- 
meadow  replied. 

In  these  days,  too,  Fairmeadow  continued  to 
fill  his  spare  hours  with  the  hurried  pursuit  of 
theological  lore.  If  his  parishioners  were  ever 
to  be  content — if  he  were  ever  completely  to 


154  FIST   PL  A  Y 

possess  their  respect — if  he  were  ever  to  win  his 
ordination — he  must  master  a  larger  knowledge 
of  the  mechanism  of  salvation  than  he  could  now 
call  his  own.  And  so  he  patiently  delved  away. 
In  this  labour  Pattie  Batch  was  tremendously  in- 
terested. John  Fairmeadow  had  explained  it 
all — examination,  the  laying  on  of  hands,  the 
dignity  of  the  cloth,  and  the  like.  And  Pattie 
Batch  was  presently  more  determined  that  John 
Fairmeadow  should  be  decorated  with  "The 
Reverend  "  than  even  John  Fairmeadow  himself. 

"How  you  gettin'  on,  Jack ? "  says  Pattie 
Batch. 

"  Too  busy,  Pattie,"  says  John  Fairmeadow, 
"  to  trouble  very  much  about  original  sin." 

"  You  better  trouble,  my  boy ! " 

"Why,  Pattie?" 

"Because  there's  nothin'  too  good  for  the 
boys." 


XVI 

THEOLOGICAL    'TRAINING 

IT  must  unhappily  be  disclosed  at  this  point 
that  John  Fairmeadow  was  not  from  the 
beginning  the  big,  bubbling,  rosy-cheeked 
fellow  who  had  with  fine  faith  and  purpose  up- 
lifted engaged  with  Gingerbread  Jenkins  and 
God  Almighty  to  minister  to  the  lumber-jacks  of 
Swamp's  End  and  all  the  woods  surrounding. 
There  had  been  a  lapse.  If  the  tale  is  to  be  told 
with  truth  to  justify  the  telling — if  Fairmeadow's 
amazing  appearance  at  Swamp's  End  is  reason- 
ably to  be  accounted  for — if  his  subsequent  ex- 
traordinary proceedings  are  to  be  explained — if 
he  is  to  become  in  any  degree  a  creature  com- 
prehensible to  these  latter  days — there  must  be 
frank  dealing  with  the  facts  in  his  case.  There 
is  no  virtue,  indeed,  in  mitigating  the  facts  ;  nor 
would  Fairmeadow  himself — had  he  a  word  to 
say  in  the  matter — sanction  a  course  so  pale  and 
insignificant.  In  the  first  place,  then,  the  Fair- 
meadow  who  had  taken  service  at  Swamp's  End 
was  that  selfsame  John  Fairmeadow  you  have 
in  mind.  He  was  that  veritable  Fairmeadow 
whose  jolly,  frowzy  countenance  grinned  so 
frequently  from  the  sporting  pages  in  the  fall 


156      THEOLOGICAL    TRAINING 

of  the  year :  the  Fairmeadow,  indeed,  whose 
fame  in  this  respect,  and  whose  convivial  repu- 
tation, reckless  pranks  and  sturdy  good  fellow- 
ship continue  to  this  day  in  the  traditions  of 
the  College,  and  are  talked  of,  with  affectionate 
indulgence,  when  good  fellows  get  together  at 
the  Club  in  town.  He  was  the  John  Fairmeadow, 
moreover,  who  vanished,  all  of  a  sudden,  from 
the  haunts  of  his  kind,  and  who  dropped  from 
sight,  without  warning  or  word  of  his  destination, 
and  continued  dropping,  dropping,  dropping, 
until  he  struck  bottom  and  could  fall  no  farther. 

Bottom  was  the  Bowery. 

"  I'm  a  little  behind  the  game,"  Fairmeadow 
used  to  yawn,  in  those  days. 

This  was  from  the  park  benches. 

Seven  months  before  his  belligerent  appear- 
ance at  Swamp's  End,  in  search  of  the  worst 
town  this  side  of  hell — it  being  then  a  wet  night 
in  the  fall  of  the  year — Fairmeadow  had  been 
ejected  from  Solomon's  Cellar,  in  the  Mulberry 
Park  neighbourhood,  because  he  disgusted  the 
ruined  habitues  of  the  place.  Ejected  is  too 
mild  a  word  with  which  to  describe  the  operation : 
Fairmeadow  had  actually  been  kicked  out.  He 
was  then — and  he  had  for  four  years  been — an 
inhabitant  of  the  outcast  drunkard's  world.  This 
was  the  city's  deepest  underworld.  It  was  a 
world  lower  than  vice  ;  it  was  the  underworld  of 


THEOLOGICAL    TRAINING      157 

vice  itself — lower  than  the  last  depths  to  which  a 
woman  could  fall.  The  common  vices  had  there 
lost  their  savour.  Wickedness  was  without  salt. 
Nothing  was  left  to  indulge.  There  remained 
only  a  bleared,  stupid,  indecent  thirst  for  alcohol. 
Dim,  stifling  lodging-houses,  ill-lit  cellar  drink- 
ing-places,  thieves'  resorts,  wet  saloon-bars,  back 
alleys,  garbage  pails,  slop-shops,  pawn-brokers' 
wickets,  the  shadowy  arches  of  the  Bridge,  de- 
serted stable  yards,  a  multitude  of  wrecked  men, 
dirt,  rags,  blasphemy,  darkness :  John  Fair- 
meadow'SjWorld  had  been  a  fantastic  and  ghastly 
confusion  of  these  things.  The  world  was  with- 
out love :  it  was  besotted.  Faces  vanished  :  rag- 
ged forms  shuffled  out  of  sight  for  the  last  time. 
Nobody  cared,  nobody  remembered :  there 
was  no  love.  John  Fairmeadow  had  moved  an 
outcast  in  these  rat-holes  and  devious  ways  until 
the  last  haunt  was  closed  to  him. 

"  I'm  a  little  behind  the  game,"  he  used  to 
yawn.  "  I  wonder  where  I  can  get  a  drink." 

It  was  only  drink. 

"  Where  can  I  get  a  drink  ?  " 

Fairmeadow  was  in  other  ways  a  clean  soul. 

There  was  the  day's  work  of  begging  for 
drink ;  there  was  nothing  more  than  that.  Food? 
What  does  a  man  want  of  food  ?  A  crumb  or 
two  of  free  lunch :  it  is  as  much,  in  such  cir- 
cumstances, as  a  man's  stomach  will  hold.  What 


158      THEOLOGICAL    TRAINING 

a  man  wants  is  another  drink.  John  Fair- 
meadow  had  pursued  another  drink  for  seven 
years.  He  had  never  quite  managed  to  catch  up 
with  it.  But  he  had  overhauled  a  good  many,  of 
course — of  all  sorts,  too :  very  good  ones  in  the 
beginning,  he  says,  with  a  wry  smile.  The  next, 
however,  had  kept  .  .  .  always  .  .  .  just 
a  little  bit  ahead.  Half  an  hour  ahead,  I  fancy, 
when  he  panhandled  the  Bowery.  There  was  al- 
ways another  beyond — a  mirage  of  soul's  ease. 
It  is  a  labour  to  pursue  the  next  drink  forever,  it 
seems.  But  exhaustion  is  stupid  and  numb. 
John  Fairmeadow  rested  at  times  :  he  slept  a  lit- 
tle. You  will  observe  that  nothing  could  put  an 
end  to  the  pursuit — no  sort  of  restraint,  no  sort 
of  treatment  in  sanitariums,  no  sort  of  effort  of 
which  John  Fairmeadow  was  even  in  the  be- 
ginning capable.  He  tried,  of  course :  for  a 
long,  long  time  he  kept  on  trying.  But  he 
was  helpless ;  and  eventually  he  found  his  level 
on  the  Bowery,  where  many  another  broken- 
hearted fellow  had  gone  before  him.  Fellows 
like  John  Fairmeadow,  moreover :  scores  of 
gentlemen,  born  and  bred,  not  to  be  distin- 
guished, then,  however,  from  the  native  wretches, 
born  of  drunken  mothers  to  inevitable  degrada- 
tion. 

It  was  this — in  the  end — that  determined  the 
residence  of  Almighty  God  and  John  Fair- 
meadow  at  Swamp's  End. 


THEOLOGICAL    TRAINING      159 

John  Fairmeadow  was  successful  on  the 
Bowery — successful  enough  to  achieve  the  dis- 
tinction of  delirium  tremens  three  times.  He 
was  a  bit  clever — with  a  cultivated  intelligence 
and  some  grit  of  birth — and  he  had  a  little  bag 
of  appealing  tricks.  The  Recessional,  for  ex- 
ample. It  never  failed  him.  It  stirred  the  low 
saloons,  somehow,  wherever  he  declaimed  it,  how- 
ever low  they  were.  The  tumult  and  the  shout- 
ing dies.  .  .  .  There  was  The  Ride  of  Paul 
Revere,  too.  A  patriotic  bit.  It  didn't  move 
John  Fairmeadow,  though  :  not  at  the  last.  He 
had  no  occasion  for  patriotic  enthusiasm.  John 
Fairmeadow  wanted  another  drink.  .  .  . 
And  a  Barrack  Room  Ballad  or  two.  By  the 
living  God  that  made  you,  you1  re  a  better  man 
than  I  am.  .  .  .  Kipling  fairly  kept  John 
Fairmeadow  in  drink.  And  John  Fairmeadow 
was  systematic.  He  kept  a  little  pocket-map  of 
the  city — he  had  it  at  Swamp's  End — and  upon 
this  with  the  stub  of  a  pencil  he  traced  his 
course  from  day  to  day.  Beginning  here  in  the 
morning ;  ending  here — at  this  corner  saloon — 
after  midnight  You  see,  John  Fairmeadow 
must  not  panhandle  the  same  saloon  twice  in  a 
week  ;  they  might  kick  him  out.  As  a  matter 
of  fact  they  frequently  did  kick  him  out.  Un- 
fortunately, he  would  be  so  drunk  at  night,  you 
see,  that  he  couldn't  put  a  mark  on  the  map  ; 
and  in  the  morning,  with  only  a  general  idea  of 


i6o       THEOLOGICAL    TRAINING 

where  he  had  concluded  the  previous  day's 
pursuit  of  another  drink,  he  would  spin  his  yarn 
~he  had  a  variety  of  pathetic  stories,  of  course 
— where  he  had  spun  quiie  a  different  one  the 
night  before.  John  Fairmeadow  didn't  blame 
them  for  kicking  him  out.  It  was  unpleasant, 
of  course  (not  in  the  least  humiliating) — but 
quite  proper.  And  he  couldn't  resent  it. 
"  A  little  behind  the  game." 

Fairmeadow  was  ejected  from  Solomon's  Cellar 
near  midnight  in  wet  weather  of  the  fall  of  the 
year — thrust  up  the  stair  by  Dutch  Paddy 
and  brutally  kicked  into  the  gutter.  Solomon's 
Cellar  was  an  all-night  haunt  of  drunkards — but 
a  step  from  Mulberry  Park.  One  might  sleep 
on  the  floor  for  the  price  of  a  glass  of  beer. 
Fairmeadow  had  slept  on  the  floor  for  six  months ; 
but  they  had  kicked  him  out,  at  last — and  he  was 
penniless,  and  very  drunk.  Of  all  the  degraded 
men  'the  cellar  sheltered  that  night  he  was  the 
most  abominable.  They  would  not  tolerate  John 
Fairmeadow :  they  kicked  him  out  into  the  rain. 
Solomon's  Cellar  was  the  last  refuge  ;  there  was 
no  lower  place.  And  Fairmeadow  was  sick. 
He  was  within  a  day  or  two,  at  most,  of  the  al- 
coholic ward.  He  had  begun  to  drink  in  the 
morning — to  drink  heavily.  Of  course,  Fair- 
meadow  must  drink  in  the  morning,  always  ;  he 
must  drink  in  the  morning.  He  was  invariably 


THEOLOGICAL    TRAINING      161 

awakened,  in  those  days,  at  five  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  by  thirst  and  horrible  dreams.  He  was 
invariably  penniless  ;  but  he  must  have  a  drink. 
There  was  no  hedging :  there  was  no  dodging. 
Fairmeadow  must  make  haste  upon  this  business. 

He  would  be  shaking  from  head  to  foot  of  this 
need  of  liquor. 

"  Fer  Gawd's  sake,"  it  was  his  custom  to 
whine,  "  gimme  a  nickel  fer  a  drink  !  " 

He  would  be  so  obviously  in  desperate  need 
that  he  would  get  his  coin.  He  would  have  his 
drink  ;  he  would  eagerly  make  haste  for  it — lick- 
ing his  dry,  blue  lips  in  expectation — his  shuffle 
sometimes  urged  to  a  staggering  run.  He  would 
have  another  drink,  obtained  in  the  same  way  : 
after  which  he  might  wait  a  bit.  .  .  .  But  he 
had  now  been  drinking  himself  drunk  in  the  morn- 
ing. It  was  indiscreet.  He  had  known  it.  There 
was  only  one  end.  One  restrains  oneself,  you 
know,  until  .  .  .  The  drunkard  of  Fair- 
meadow's  low  type  lives  continuously  in  deadly 
fear  of  delirium  tremens.  He  goes  to  the  verge. 
He  withdraws — for  a  time.  He  is  frightened  ; 
he  dare  go  no  further.  And  then,  all  at  once, 
before  he  knows  it,  the  poor  wretch  has  stepped 
beyond,  and  .  .  .  And  John  Fairmeadow 
of  the  Bowery  had  three  times  known  the  terrors 
of  that  delirium. 

Fairmeadow  had  that  morning  determined  to 


162       THEOLOGICAL    TRAINING 

have  a  lodging-house  cot  for  the  night.  It  was 
a  bitter  morning — wet  and  cold,  the  wind  blus- 
tering up  from  the  Battery.  Fairmeadow  must 
have  a  bed,  that  night,  he  knew,  to  keep  the  life 
in  his  shivering  body  ;  but  to  have  the  bed  he 
must  save  fifteen  cents.  He  began  at  noon  to 
deny  himself.  But  restraint  fretted  and  unnerved 
him.  The  objective  of  his  day's  beseeching  for 
alms,  of  course,  was  stupor  at  night;  how  diffi- 
cult for  him,  then,  to  withhold  his  gain — with  a 
broken  will !  He  panhandled  ten  cents  at  noon. 
A  stroke  of  good  luck !  Very  good.  It  was 
early — only  noon.  He  could  surely  afford — an- 
other drink.  And  having  had  it,  five  cents  re- 
mained. He  stowed  the  coin  away — this  first 
saving  for  his  bed.  The  drink  inspired  him :  he 
was  quite  sure,  now,  that  he  would  be  able  to 
add  ten  cents  to  the  five  before  late  night — that 
he  would  have  the  strength  to  beg  it  and  the  will 
to  keep  it.  He  must  have  a  bed.  It  was  the 
fall  of  the  year,  you  see  ;  and  it  was  sleeting — a 
wet,  killing  wind  blowing  up  from  the  sea.  He 
must  surely  sleep  under  cover  that  night.  But 
luck  changed — and  he  wanted  another  drink. 
He  had  it,  of  course.  He  fought  for  an  hour — 
he  worked  himself  into  a  nervous  sweat — to  keep 
the  coin  in  his  pocket.  But  he  could  not  keep 
it ;  and  he  had  known  all  along  that  he  could 
not. 

Here  was  night  coming  down  :  a  cold  night — 


THEOLOGICAL    'TRAINING       163 

wet  and  blowing.  And  John  Fairmeadow  must 
not  sleep  out ;  there  must  be  no  deserted  truck 
for  a  bed — no  park  bench — no  shelter  of  the 
Bridge — no  draughty  cellar — no  huddled  repose 
in  the  warm  air  ascending  from  some  sidewalk 
grating.  He  must  not  sleep  out.  He  must  not : 
he  did  not  dare.  It  was  unseasonable  weather. 
John  Fairmeadow  was  not  ready  for  it :  he  had 
no  shirt — he  had  nothing,  indeed,  but  coat  and 
trousers  and  broken  shoes.  It  was  no  night  for 
a  sick  man — for  a  man  as  desperately  ill  as  Fair- 
meadow — to  sleep  in  the  bitter  air.  But  nobody 
heeded  him.  And  here  was  despair.  Still  no- 
body heeded  him.  He  begged  in  despair.  He 
whined — he  raged.  He  was  wet,  you  see  :  it  was 
late — it  would  presently  be  too  late. 

Too  late  i 

And  — 

"  M'  friend,"  said  a  tipsy  young  fellow,  "  it's 
time  you  were  in  bed." 

Fairmeadow  found  a  quarter  in  the  palm  of 
his  hand. 

Well,  here  was  luck  !  This  wasn't  so  bad,  to 
be  sure  !  All  at  once  Fairmeadow  had  his  bed 
— there  in  his  hand.  And  he  had  a  surplus. 
Fifteen  from  twenty-five  is  ten.  Ten  cents  is 
equal  to  two  glasses  of  cheapest  whiskey.  Fair- 
meadow  had  one  glass  at  once,  of  course  ;  and 
presently  he  had  another — and  wanted  the  third. 


164       THEOLOGICAL    TRAINING 

But  he  must  not  have  the  third  :  there  was  no 
money  to  be  spared  for  the  third.  He  felt  better, 
however — immensely  better.  He  was  mistaken, 
after  all,  it  seemed  ;  he  was  not  going  to  be  sick. 
He  felt  well — jolly  well.  So  far  as  a  bed  was 
concerned — why — he  did  not  need  a  bed.  He 
could  do  without  it  at  a  pinch.  And  he  did 
want — and  need — another  drink.  He  had  it,  of 
course  ;  he  could  not  help  himself.  And  now  he'd 
done  it !  He  had  broken  his  bed  money.  But 
having  done  this,  why  not  have  the  other  two 
drinks  ?  What  was  the  use  of  keeping  ten  cents 
over  night  ?  Why  shouldn't  he  fortify  himself  ? 
So  he  had  the  two  drinks :  he  could  not  help  it. 
And  drunk,  bewildered,  shivering,  he  made  his 
way  to  Solomon's  Cellar,  from  which,  when  he 
had  slept  a  little,  they  kicked  him  out,  because 
he  could  not  buy  a  glass  of  beer,  because  he  was 
filthy,  because  he  was  ill-mouthed,  because  he  was 
all  quivering  of  nearness  to  the  alcoholic  ward. 

Fairmeadow  stumbled  to  a  bench  in  Mulberry 
Park  and  there  sat  down  in  the  rain. 
"  How  long  ?  "  he  wondered,  stupidly, 
It  was  a  bitter  night :  a  cold,  sleety  night,  and 
late  of  it,  with  a  killing  wind  driving  up  from  the 
harbour.     There  was  nobody  about :  a  staggerer, 
only — two  children  bearing  burdens  beyond  their 
strength — a  shrewish  woman  in  her  cups.     It  was 
very  late.     The  tenement  hum  and  shuffle  had 
long  ago  ceased. 


THEOLOGICAL    TRAINING      165 

Two  men  approached. 

"  Per  Gawd's  sake,"  Fairmeadow  besought 
them — it  was  the  last  time  the  whine  passed  his 
lips — "  gimme  a  nickel  fer  a  drink  !  " 

Up-town,  the  children's  prayers  had  all  long 
ago  been  said :  the  cradles  and  cribs  and  little 
beds  held  each  its  burden  of  innocent  flesh  and 
sweet  untroubled  spirit.  The  polite  world  was 
still  employed  with  its  diversions — with  love, 
laughter  and  young  romance — with  its  aspira- 
tions and  glittering  hilarities.  Of  what  hap- 
pened, then,  in  Mulberry  Park,  however,  John 
Fairmeadow  has  no  very  distinct  recollection. 
He  recalls  that  he  reeled  off  towards  the  Bowery 
— that  he  had  no  money  for  a  drink — that  he 
wanted  a  bed-ticket — that  he  had  been  promised 
a  bed-ticket — that  he  must  get  that  bed-ticket  or 
die — that  he  would  surely  get  the  bed-ticket  if 
he  kept  on. 

Jerry  McAuley,  who  first  conceived  a  mission 
of  rescue  to  the  exhausted  underworld  outcasts 
— it  stands  to  this  day  in  the  evening  shadow  of 
Brooklyn  Bridge  in  Water  Street — was  once  ag- 
itated by  that  which  thereafter  remained  to  him 
a  mysterious  and  profoundly  amazing  experi- 
ence. It  was  a  vision  :  he  so  called  it — a  dream, 
a  trance,  a  vision.  He  was  then,  he  used  to  say, 
not  in  the  spirit  of  the  Lord's  day,  as  St.  John  of 
the  Patmos  revelation  ;  he  was  at  work — singing 


166       THEOLOGICAL    'TRAINING 

at  his  work.  It  was  broad  day.  The  sun  shone. 
Except  within  the  dreamer's  consciousness  there 
was  of  course  no  interruption  of  the  sound  and 
movement  of  the  workaday  world  of  which  he 
was  a  part.  Presently,  however,  he  was  in  some 
way  withdrawn.  "  My  mind,"  he  was  used  to 
explaining,  bewildered  for  words,  "  became  ab- 
sorbed." A  house  was  revealed :  not  a  habita- 
tion, perhaps — a  house  of  singular  healing,  from 
which  a  multitude  of  outcast  men,  having  en- 
tered shuffling  and  ashamed,  evil,  filthy  and  in 
rags,  emerged  clean  and  exalted,  and  went  each 
his  way  in  the  proper  stature  of  a  man.  The 
vision  was  so  real-appearing,  so  vivid  and  com- 
plete and  significant,  that  McAuley  fancied  it 
a  direct  and  divine  revelation — an  objective, 
at  least,  towards  which  his  life  must  there- 
after by  divine  direction  tend.  It  could  have 
been  no  more  surely  a  moving  reality  of  the 
dreamer's  experience  had  a  cloud  of  witnesses 
confirmed  the  fact  and  substance  of  it. 

"  I  seemed  to  have  a  house  in  the  Fourth 
ward,"  he  used  to  say ;  "  and  there  was  a  bath, 
and  thousands  of  wretched  men  came  to  my 
house,  and  as  they  came  in  I  washed  them  out- 
side and  the  Lord  washed  them  inside." 

It  was  to  this  house  that  John  Fairmeadow 
came.  And  that  night — because  of  what  hap- 
pened in  the  house  of  Jerry  McAuley's  vision — 
Swamp's  End  became  inevitable  in  John  Fair- 


THEOLOGICAL    'TRAINING       167 

meadow's  life.  There  was  nothing  else  for  it : 
John  Fairmeadow  must  do  precisely  what  pres- 
ently he  set  out  to  do  and  eventually  accom- 
plished. The  same  miracle  had  been  worked 
many  times  before  in  the  house  of  McAuley's 
vision.  It  will  be  worked  again — many,  many 
times  again.  It  will  have  the  same  effect  in  the 
lives  of  the  men  who  have  been  made  clean.  It 
will  impel  them  to  go  out — to  go  out  into  the 
wide  world  and  to  work  therein — to  work  therein 
and  to  find  peace  in  their  own  labour. 


XVII 
A    FATHER    FOR    THE   BABY 

LITTLE  Pattie  Batch  of  Swamp's  End  in 
the  lumber  woods  had  from  the  very  be- 
ginning intended  never  to  be  married ; 
but  with  the  advent  of  the  baby — shortly  there- 
after, to  be  precise — she  had  changed  her  mind. 
It  was  not  often  that  the  positive  little  creature 
was  disposed  to  weakness  of  this  description ;  but 
she  had  all  at  once  gone  round  about  in  the  mat- 
ter— with  something  of  a  jerk,  indeed,  and  in 
surprise,  like  a  robin  turning  its  head — and  she 
had  now  firily  decided.  At  first,  however,  when 
the  baby  was  quite  new,  conceiving  herself  then 
to  have  been  made  altogether  independent  of  a 
Mr.  Pattie  Batch  by  this  amazing  stroke  of  good 
luck,  her  ancient  resolve  against  matrimony  had 
grown  all  of  a  sudden  fixed  and  gigantic. 
"  Why,"  thinks  she,  in  gleeful  illumination — and 
as  though  shaking  a  defiant  little  fist  in  the  face 
of  the  whole  masculine  world — "  I — I — I  don't 
have  t',  do  I  ?  "  All  very  well :  but  presently  the 
baby — well,  of  course,  as  everybody  knows,  a 
baby  is  everywhere  a  fashioning  power.  One 
never  can  tell  what  extraordinary  changes  a  baby 

1 68 


A    FATHER  for    The    BABY        169 

will  work  without  so  much  as  a  word  or  a  wink 
or  a  by-your-leave.  And  this  baby — Pattie 
Batch's  baby — began  at  once  to  revolutionize 
the  adoring  universe  of  Pattie  Batch's  little  cabin 
at  the  edge  of  the  big  woods. 

It  was  not  Pattie  Batch's  very  own  baby  ;  nor, 
of  course,  was  it  John  Fairmeadow's  baby  :  it  was 
nobody's  baby,  at  all,  indeed  in  so  far  as  the 
bedraggled  lumber  town  of  Swamp's  End  was 
aware.  It  was  a  foundling  child,  the  gift  of  a 
winter's  gale,  brought  to  Pattie  Batch,  as  may  be 
recalled,  in  ease  of  her  desolation  and  in  advance- 
ment of  its  own  fortunes,  by  John  Fairmeadow, 
to  whom  it  had  mysteriously  been  bequeathed  by 
a  Shadow,  now  vanished,  and  never  seen  again. 
A  welcome  gift,  to  be  sure !  with  Gray  Billy  Batch 
lost  in  the  Rattle  Water  rapids  in  the  drive  of  that 
year,  and  his  tender  daughter,  left  abandoned  by 
his  death,  living  alone  and  disconsolate  in  the  log 
cabin  at  the  edge  of  the  big,  black  woods.  More- 
over, Pattie  Batch  had  with  her  whole  heart  always 
wanted  a  baby  ;  and  now  that  she  had  a  baby — 
a  baby  to  polish,  at  the  appointed  intervals,  from 
the  crown  of  its  head  to  the  very  most  cunning 
of  all  created  toes — a  suitable  and  amazing  in- 
fant in  every  respect — she  was  content  with  all 
the  gifts  of  fortune. 

When,  next  morning  after  the  baby's  astonish- 
ing arrival  in  the  arms  of  John  Fairmeadow, 


170        A    FATHER   for    The    BABY 

Pattie  Batch  bent  in  a  glow  of  motherly  adora- 
tion over  the  morsel  in  the  basket  — 

"  By  ginger  ! "  thinks  she,  "  I'd  jutht  like  t> 
thee  the  Prethident  o'  the  United  Thtateth  athk 
me  t'  marry  him." 

The  baby,  of  course,  chuckled  his  approbation  : 
whereupon  Pattie  Batch  ferociously  declared  — 

"  Pd  thquelch  him  !  " 

What  of  the  untoward — and  in  what  over- 
whelming measure — might  instantly  have  hap- 
pened to  the  poor  gentleman,  in  the  event  of  a 
declaration  so  presumptuous,  heaven  knows ! 
An  indication  of  the  sorrowful  catastrophe, 
however,  in  which  a  similar  temerity  would 
surely  have  involved  the  bold  gentlemen  of 
Swamp's  End  and  Elegant  Corners,  was  con- 
veyed in  Pattie  Batch's  mounting  flush,  in  the 
flash  of  her  scornful  gray  eyes,  in  her  attitude  of 
indignation,  in  her  rosy  little  fists,  and,  most  of 
all,  perhaps,  in  the  saucy — but  infinitely  bewitch- 
ing— tilt  of  her  dimpled  chin.  She  would  not 
at  that  moment  have  indulged  the  choicest 
flower  of  those  parts — not  with  a  perfectly 
satisfactory  baby  already  in  her  possession. 

Pattie  Batch,  having  declared  her  loyalty  to 
the  baby,  kissed  his  round  cheek  so  softly  that 
it  might  very  well  have  been  the  caress  of  a 
dewdrop;  and  then  she  lifted  him  from  the 
basket,  and  let  him  lie '  on  her  breast,  where,  if 
you  will  believe  it,  he  just  exactly,  fitted. 


A    FATHER   for    The    BABY        171 

And- 

"  Huh  1"    she    snorted,    "  I    reckon    Vm    not 
athkin'  no  odds  o'  nobody." 
Kings  and  emperors  included  ! 

Subsequently,  however,  motherly  little  Pa- 
tience Batch,  forever  on  the  lookout  for  mena- 
cing circumstances,  had  all  of  a  sudden  dis- 
covered a  lack  in  the  baby's  life.  The  need, 
indeed,  was  a  swift  and  poignant  revelation,  and 
bitter,  too,  to  the  mother-taste  ;  and  like  the 
untoward  it  remained  thereafter  in  Pattie 
Batch's  memory  fixed  in  its  scene.  Pattie  Batch 
recalls  to  this  day  that  the  sun  was  warmly 
shining,  that  a  little  breeze  flowed  over  the  pines 
and  splashed  into  Gray  Billy  Batch's  lazy  clear- 
ing, where  it  rippled  the  fragrant  grasses,  and 
that  the  twitter  and  amorous  call  of  spring  were 
in  the  soft  wind.  It  was  Sunday  :  an  interval  of 
rest  from  the  wash-wash-washing  for  the  Bottle 
River  camps  in  behalf  of  the  baby's  education. 
Pattie  Batch  had  polished  the  baby — she  had 
soaked,  swabbed,  scrubbed  and  scraped  the 
baby — until  the  delicious  morsel  shone  to  a 
point  of  radiancy  that  might  fairly  have  blinded 
the  unaccustomed  beholder;  and  the  Blessed 
One,  with  that  patience  with  love  which  dis- 
tinguished and  endeared  it,  had  done  noth- 
ing but  smile,  in  bored  toleration  of  all  this 
motherly  foolishness,  from  the  moment  of  first 


172        A    FATHER  for    'The    BABY 

unbuttoning  to  the  happy  time  of  buttoning  up 
again. 

Pattie  Batch  had  the  baby,  now,  in  a  sunlit 
patch  of  wild-flowers  at  the  edge  of  the  woods, 
which,  presently,  the  lumber-jacks  from  the 
Bottle  River  camps,  drifting  from  the  dim  forest 
trail  to  the  clearing  of  Swamp's  End  for  Sunday 
diversion,  went  passing.  She  heard  laughter 
going  by.  It  was  no  clean,  boyish  glee :  it  was 
a  blasphemous  outburst — by  which,  however, 
bred  at  Swamp's  End,  Pattie  Batch  would  not 
have  been  greatly  disturbed,  had  not  the  baby, 
catching  ear  of  it,  too,  crowed  in  response. 

It  was  the  answering  call — Pattie  Batch 
fancied  in  a  flash — of  man  to  man. 

"  What  you  laughin'  at  ?  "  she  demanded. 

The  baby  chuckled. 

"  Thtop  it ! "  said  Pattie  Batch,  severely. 

By  now  the  laughter  of  the  men  had  gone 
down  the  trail ;  but  the  baby  was  still  chuckling, 
with  a  little  ear  cocked  for  the  vanishing  hilarity. 

"What  you  laughin'  at?"  Pattie  whispered. 

The  baby  stared  in  amused  bewilderment. 

"  Thtop  it ! "  Pattie  commanded,  scowling  in  a 
rage  of  fear.  She  caught  the  baby's  dimpled 
hand — a  rough  grasp.  "  Don't  laugh  like 
that!"  she  pleaded. 

Of  course,  the  baby  was  infinitely  astonished, 
and  puckered  his  lips,  in  protest  that  whatever  it 
was,  he  couldn't  help  it ;  and  he  would  next 


A    FATHER  for    The    BABY        173 

instant  have  surprised  the  woods — his  mouth 
was  opening  wide — had  not  the  motherly  little 
thing  snatched  him  to  herself. 

"  Never  mind  !  "  she  crooned,  contritely  ;  "  oh, 
never  mind — never  mind  !  " 

Now,  her  heart  in  a  flutter,  Pattie  Batch  tried 
to  interpret  its  agitation  in  definite  terms ;  and 
presently  she  understood  that  the  baby  was  a 
departing  guest  It  was  the  inevitable  revela- 
tion. For  a  moment  she  stood  at  bay  against 
the  law  of  growth  and  change,  amazed,  pale, 
her  rosy  little  fists  clenched,  her  sweet  red  lips 
tight  shut,  her  gray  eyes  pools  of  resentful  fire. 
Love  is  no  trifling,  nor  any  free  delight :  it  costs 
to  love,  and  there  is  no  easing  of  the  obligation  ; 
but  there  abides  in  love  the  seed  of  its  own 
salvation.  Pattie  Batch  cried  a  little.  It  would 
malign  her  motherly  heart  to  protest  that  she 
did  nothing  of  the  sort.  But  at  least  she  had 
the  decency  to  turn  her  face  away  from  the  baby 
— who  had  nothing  to  do,  of  course,  with  the 
law  of  growth,  and  was  innocent  of  blame — and 
to  manage  a  wry  and  glistening  smile  when  she 
turned  about  again.  She  picked  the  baby  up, 
then,  from  his  bed  and  throne  of  flowers,  and 
hugged  him  tight,  and  kissed  him  until  he 
squirmed :  whereupon  she  set  him  away,  and 
stood  off,  regarding  him  in  awe  and  willful 
accusation — and  at  once  began  to  cry  again,  her 
heart  yielding  against  her  will. 


174        A    FATHER  for    The    BABY 

John  Fairmeadow  was  no  longer  a  Bowery 
outcast.  He  was  now  a  strapping,  rosy,  bub- 
bling young  fellow  with  a  mighty  zeal  in  behalf 
of  a  clean  world ;  and  he  was  in  the  days  of  this 
stressful  time  engaged  with  a  broom  of  lusty 
faith  upon  the  accumulations  at  Swamp's  End 
and  all  the  shanty  towns  of  his  big,  green  parish. 
It  promised  to  be,  he  sometimes  fancied,  a  per- 
manent employment ;  but  every  morning,  with  a 
soul  refreshed,  he  took  off  his  coat,  rolled  up  his 
sleeves,  seized  his  broom  and  turned  to  once 
more,  with  a  smile  and  a  hearty  will,  his  zeal  not 
in  the  least  discouraged  by  the  magnitude  of  his 
task.  He  was  a  fine  figure  of  a  man,  body  and 
soul :  he  was  known  to  Swamp's  End  as  a  man 
— a  jolly,  pugnacious,  sensitive,  prayerful  fellow, 
with  a  pure  purpose  in  the  world  and  a  fixed  de- 
termination to  achieve  it.  He  had  twinkling 
gray  eyes,  broad  shoulders,  a  solid  jaw,  a  straight 
back  and  a  tender  voice.  It  was  not,  however, 
with  these  charms — nor  with  those  which  have 
been  omitted  from  this  catalogue — that  he  im- 
pressed a  better  way  upon  his  remote  and  rebel- 
lious parishioners  ;  it'was  rather  with  a  masterful 
intention,  amazing  devotion,  a  pair  of  dependable 
and  intelligent  fists,  good  fellowship,  and  gener- 
osity unfailing  and  just.  A  worthy  fellow,  in- 
deed, from  his  soft  utterance  in  prayer  to  his  roar 
of  laughter  in  the  glow  of  the  bunk-house  fires  ! 

Turning,  now,  from  the  Bottle  River  trail — he 


A    FATHER  for    The  BABY        175 

was  bound  out  to  the  camps  for  Sunday  preach- 
ing— he  came  upon  Pattie  Batch  in  tears  at  the 
edge  of  the  woods.  "  Why,  why,  why  !  "  he  ex- 
claimed aghast ;  "  what's  all  this,  child  ?  " 

"  Nothin',"  said  Pattie  Batch. 

"  Nothing !  "  John  Fairmeadow  protested. 

"  Well,"  Pattie  Batch  drawled,  with  a  snuffle, 
4t  I'm  jutht  cryin'  a  HT  bit." 

"  I  should  think  you  were,"  said  John  Fair- 
meadow.  "There's  a  tear  on  the  tip  of  your 
nose.  But  why  9  " 

"  Nothin',"  Pattie  Batch  replied,  indifferently. 

"  Nonsense  !  "  John  Fairmeadow  declared. 

"  Nothin'  much"  said  Pattie  Batch. 

John  Fairmeadow  inquiringly  lifted  Pattie 
Batch's  little  brown  hand — whereupon  Pattie 
Batch  looked  shyly  away  without  very  well 
knowing  why — and  demanded  an  explanation. 

"  It'th  the  baby,"  Pattie  Batch  admitted. 

"  Preposterous  1 "  said  John  Fairmeadow,  in 
disgust ;  "  the  baby  isn't  old  enough  to  hurt 
anybody 's  feelings." 

"  The  baby,"  Pattie  Batch  sighed,  "  hath  got 
t'  grow  up." 

"  Glad  of  it  1 "  cried  John  Fairmeadow.  "  I'm 
delighted ! " 

"  Ithn't  goin'  t'  be  no  baby  no  more  \  " 

"  Of  course  not ! "  said  John  Fairmeadow. 
•'  Have  you  nothing  better  to  do  than  cry  over 
that?" 


176        A    FATHER  for    The   BABY 

"Well,"  Pattie  Batch  flashed,  "I  gueth  I 
know  my  bithneth.  I'm  a  mother,"  she  de- 
clared, indignantly. 

For  the  life  of  him,  John  Fairmeadow  could 
discover  no  cause  of  grief  in  this  fine  prospect  of 
growth.  "  Good  heavens ! "  said  he,  "  why 
shouldn't  the  baby  grow  up?  Hasn't  he  the 
right  to  grow  up  if  he  wants  to  ?  " 

Pattie  Batch  sat  up  with  a  jerk  and  stared  at 
John  Fairmeadow.  "  What  say  ?  "  she  gasped. 

"  Hasn't  he  the  right  to  grow  up  ?  " 

Pattie  Batch  pondered  this.  Presently  she 
sighed  and  wiped  her  gray  eyes.  "  Thith  here 
baby  dothn't  belong  t'  me  at  all,"  she  said, 
slowly,  with  the  resignation  inevitable  in  good 
mothers  when  the  revelation  is  complete  ;  "  he — 
belong th — to — himthelf!  " 

A  good  thing  to  have  over  and  done  with  ! 

Pattie  Batch,  resolute  little  heart !  was  not 
much  given  to  weeping ;  and  once  having  faced 
the  inevitable — persuaded,  now,  too,  that  a  soul 
is  its  own  possession — she  dried  her  tears  com- 
pletely and  turned  with  rising  courage  to  re- 
fashion her  motherly  strategy  in  the  light  of  this 
new  vision.  There  would  be  growth  and  change 
and  going  away.  The  baby  would  grow  up : 
the  baby  would  presently  disappear  in  the  boy, 
and  the  boy,  like  a  flying  shadow,  would  vanish 
in  the  man.  Very  well,  what  then  ?  A  revision 


A    FATHER  for    The    BABY        177 

of  her  love  in  its  forms  of  expression,  certainly. 
Pattie  Batch,  moreover,  must  instantly  devise  a 
plan.  It  began  to  rain,  by  and  by  ;  the  lazy 
breeze,  flowing  over  the  pines,  brought  at  night- 
fall a  cold  drizzle  :  and  Pattie  Batch,  the  baby 
stowed  away  in  rosy  sleep,  drew  up  to  the  fire 
to  think,  in  her  father's  way.  Then  and  there, 
for  the  baby,  she  scattered  her  future  to  the 
winds  of  chance,  emptied  her  heart  of  its  abiding 
desires  and  overturned  her  little  world.  She  sat 
for  a  long  time,  heart  and  mind  washed  clean  of 
selfishness,  dreaming  heavily,  in  the  glow,  con- 
cerning the  making  of  Men.  How  should  one 
make  a  Man  ?  What  was  demanded  ?  What 
cleverness — what  labour — what  sacrifice?  And 
the  night  had  not  far  sped  before  wise  little  Pat- 
tie  Batch  came  gravely  to  her  momentous  con- 
clusion. Only  a  man,  she  determined,  could 
make  a  Man. 

John  Fairmeadow  tapped  at  the  door,  and, 
heartily  bidden,  entered  for  a  moment  from  the 
rainy  wind.  "  Well,  well !  "  said  he ;  "  it's  high 
time  all  little  mothers  were  in  bed.  Come,  come, 
my  good  woman !  I  just  dropped  in  to  pack 
you  off." 

"  Thith  here  little  mother,"  said  Pattie  Batch, 
with  a  saucy  toss,  "  ith  almighty  bithy." 

"  Busy !  "  cried  John  Fairmeadow. 

"Yep,"  Pattie  Batch  declared;  "but  she'th 
pretty  near  through." 


178        A    FATHER  for    me    BABY 

John  Fairmeadow  demanded  to  know,  of 
course,  what  the  little  mother  had  been  bother- 
ing her  pretty  brains  with. 

"  Nothin',"  said  Pattie  Batch. 

"  None  o'  that ! "  John  Fairmeadow  pro- 
tested. 

"  Anyhow,"  said  Pattie  Batch,  "  nothin'  much." 

"  Out  with  it,  young  woman  !  " 

"  I  th'pothe,"  Pattie  Batch  drawled,  "  that  I 
got  t'  get  married." 

"  Nonsense  !  "  John  Fairmeadow  ejaculated. 

"  By  ginger  !  "  Pattie  Batch  burst  out,  with  a 
slap  of  her  knee,  "  I  got  t'  get  thith  here  baby  a 
father." 

"  A  what  ?  " 

"  A  father  for  thith  here  baby.' 

John  Fairmeadow  jumped.  "  Patience  Batch," 
said  he,  promptly,  "  how  would  I  do  ?  " 

"  Thertainly  not !  "  said  Pattie  Batch. 

"  Why  not  ? "  John  Fairmeadow  wanted  to 
know. 

"  Becauthe,"  drawled  Pattie  Batch. 

"  I'd  be  an  excellent  parent,"  John  Fairmeadow 
declared.  "  I'd  be  an  excellent  parent  for  any 
baby.  Why,  I'd " 

"  John  Fairmeadow  !  "  Pattie  exclaimed. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  me  ?  "  Fairmeadow 
demanded.  "  Why  wouldn't  I  do  ?  " 

"  The  idea  !  "  cried  Pattie  Batch,  her  gray  eyes 
popping. 


A    FATHER   for    The    BABY       179 

John  Fairmeadow  was  forthwith  shooed  into 
the  night  and  rainy  wind  to  cool  his  ardour. 

John  Fairmeadow  laughed  all  the  way  to 
Swamp's  End.  Sometimes  it  was  a  roar  of 
laughter,  with  his  head  thrown  back ;  sometimes 
it  was  a  quiet  chuckle  ;  sometimes  it  was  laugh- 
ter without  much  mirth  in  it,  at  all.  But  at  any 
rate,  he  was  vastly  amused  with  the  situation  ;  and 
he  continued  his  doubtful  laughter  to  the  door  of 
Pale  Peter's  saloon  at  Swamp's  End.  As  for 
Pattie  Batch,  the  conscientious  little  thing  sat 
brooding  for  a  long,  long  time ;  and  she  deter- 
mined, at  last — and  fin'ly — that  however  much 
the  baby  might  need  a  father,  John  Fairmeadow 
would  never  do.  Never  1  He  would  not  do  at 
all  /  Admirable  as  he  was  in  general — good  and 
kind  as  he  was — he  was  not  desirable  as  a  parent. 
Pattie  Batch  could  not  explain,  possibly,  pre- 
cisely how  she  had  come  to  this  conclusion  ;  but 
that  she  did  come  to  it — and  that  thereupon  she 
resolutely  crossed  John  Fairmeadow  off  the  list  of 
prospective  fathers — is  a  matter  of  history.  She 
must  address  herself,  she  fancied,  to  the  task  of 
discovering  somebody  else ;  and  having  dis- 
covered a  person  of  promise,  she  determined  she 
would  not  let  the  grass  grow  under  her  feet.  It 
would  perhaps  be  a  difficult  task — it  would  surely 
be  a  delicate  one — to  disclose  her  mind  to  the 
victim ;  but  this  must  be  done,  and  done  with 


i8o        A    FATHER  for    'The    BABY 

good  cheer,  for  the  baby's  sake.  Singularly 
enough,  when  Pattie  Batch  had  put  the  baby  to 
bed  for  the  night,  and  when,  too,  she  had  put  her 
sweet  little  self  to  bed,  she  began  to  cry.  This 
narrative,  however,  must  now  concern  itself,  not 
with  the  matrimonial  adventures  of  Pattie  Batch, 
but  with  the  matrimonial  adventures  of  no  less  a 
person  than  Gingerbread  Jenkins,  and  the  part 
that  big  John  Fairmeadow  played  in  them. 

It  will  be  recalled  that  Gingerbread  Jenkins, 
having  discovered  Plain  Tom  Hitch  agreeably 
employed  with  a  flower,  determined  to  reform. 

"  I  reckon  I'll  get  married,"  said  he,  "  an'  settle 
down." 

John  Fairmeadow  had  a  word  to  say  about 
that ;  and  what  John  Fairmeadow  said — and  what 
he  did — old  John  Rowl,  of  Bottle  River,  can  tell 
better  than  anybody  else. 


XVIII 
GINGERBREAD 

IT  was  snowing  at  Swamp's  End.  The  flakes 
were  shaken  to  the  wind  from  a  thick  sky 
to  which  the  moon  gave  a  narrowing  circle 
of  misty  light.  The  gale  came  from  the  farther 
northwest.  It  ran  over  the  pines,  broken  free  of 
the  mountains,  and,  careering  unaware,  tumbled 
headlong  into  the  little  clearing  at  Kettle  camp 
of  the  Bottle  River  cutting,  where  it  swirled  be- 
wildered and  angry.  Having  rattled  the  win- 
dows of  the  bunk-houses  in  a  flush  of  indigna- 
tion— and  having  shaken  the  doors  in  complaint 
— and  having  beaten  the  roofs  in  a  vicious  prank 
of  the  night — and  having  poked  cold  and  search- 
ing fingers  with  impudent  curiosity  into  every 
smallest  crevice  of  these  low  log  habitations — 
and  having  howled  in  the  lustiest  fashion  through 
all  the  agitated  experience — it  rushed  away  to 
the  big  woods,  whisking  off  the  smoke  of  the 
cabin  fires  and  their  short-lived  sparks.  The 
smoke  found  good  company  and  an  engaging 
adventure  with  the  roistering  wind,  it  seemed ; 
but  the  aspiring  little  sparks,  flashing  gladly  in 
the  free  wind's  wake,  died  of  frosty  hardship  in 
the  first  eager  flight.  It  was  Sunday  night :  an 

181 


1 8a  GINGERBREAD 

idle  time — with  cold  weather  and  a  blinding  gale 
to  keep  men  close  to  encouraging  company  and 
to  the  fires.  Rowl,  the  sealer,  weathered  to  the 
knot  and  grain  of  his  tall  nature  by  fifty  years  of 
forest  labour,  and  grown  vastly  sentimental  in 
the  same  silence  and  isolation  and  forming  com- 
panionship, kicked  open  the  door  of  the  superin- 
tendent's stove  and  flung  in  more  wood,  growl- 
ing contemptuously  in  answer  to  the  wind's  big 
roaring,  his  big  face  scowling  and  red  in  the 
furnace  glow. 

"  Married  ?  "  Rowl  growled.  "  Of  course,  he's 
married ! " 

The  superintendent  laughed. 

"Why  shouldn't  he  be  married?"  Rowl  de- 
manded. 

"Why  should  he?"  the  superintendent  re- 
torted. 

"For  one  reason,"  Rowl  drawled,  "be- 
cause John  Fairmeadow  was  willin'  t'  tie  the 
knot." 

The  superintendent  laughed  again,  "  But  you 
see,"  he  began,  "  Gingerbread  Jenkins ' 

"  Look  here ! "  Rowl  interrupted,  impatiently. 
"It's  all  very  well  for  you  young  lusty  bucks  t' 
squat  here  at  this  fire  on  a  windy  night  an'  guess 
about  men  an'  women.  It's  all  very  well  for  you 
t'  warm  your  shanks,  an'  toast  your  souls,  an' 
gab  an'  declare  about  men  an'  women.  It's  all 
very  well  for  you  t'  take  a  child's  chart  o'  the 


"It's  all  very  well  for  you  t'  warm  your  shanks  an'  toast  your 
souls,"  Roul  growled. 


GINGERBREAD  183 

world  in  your  hands  an'  discover  the  worth  of  a 
man  to  a  woman  an'  the  service  she  owes  him. 
It's  all  very  well  for  you,  I've  no  doubt,  t'  look 
for  God's  purposes  in  the  dark  an'  troubled 
hearts  of  us  all  with  a  lantern  o'  half-baked  ex- 
perience an'  devil's  wishes.  It's  youth  t'  guess 
— t'  guess,  an'  t'  have  no  obligations,  an'  t'  pay 
nothin'.  It's  youth  t'  take  without  thinkin',  an' 
t'  complain  o'  burnt  fingers.  It's  youth  t'  blame 
God  for  its  own  stupidity.  It's  youth  t'  plan  a 
better  world  than  the  Ancient  of  Days  Himself 
could  make  with  His  own  Almighty  Hands  out 
o'  the  knowledge  of  His  years  and  all  the  pain 
o'  them.  It's  youth  to  excuse  itself,  an'  t'  find 
fault,  an'  t'  whine  of  injustice,  an'  t'  curse  the 
law  it  has  stupidly  offended.  It's  age  t'  laugh 
at  guesses ;  it's  age  t'  content  itself  with  wonder 
— t'  find  wisdom  in  visions — t'  know  the  law — to 
accept  an' t'  be  still.  An'  as  for  Gingerbread  Jen- 
kins an'  John  Fairmeadow  an'  the  woman,"  he 
concluded,  his  emotion  breaking  in  a  quiet 
chuckle,  "why " 

"  Well  ?  "  said  the  superintendent. 

"  Well,"  the  sealer  drawled,  "  I  never  could 
quite  figure  it  out  that  a  sot  o'  Swamp's  End  had 
much  t'  spare  in  the  same  room  with  the  mother 
of  a  child." 

"What  child?" 

"  Why,  any  child ! "  Rowl  burst  out.  "  Any- 
body's child  !  Don't  you  understand  ?  " 


1 84  GINGERBREAD 

Rowl  went  on  with  the  tale  of  Gingerbread 
Jenkins.  .  .  . 

"  'Tis  a  big  and  curious  world,  no  doubt," 
Rowl  began,  after  a  little  brooding  pause,  with  a 
chuckle  in  which  was  more  of  melancholy  than 
of  laughter,  "  an'  no  discredit  t'  the  reputation  of 
its  Maker,  as  I  do  grant  an'  believe.  I've  been  a 
lover  o'  books,  in  my  time,  though  no  great 
reader  o'  the  hearts  o*  livin'  men  ;  but  'tis  doubt- 
less true  o'  cities,  as  'tis  the  almighty  truth  o' 
these  woods,  that  a  man's  soul  gives  him  small 
bother  'til  he's  strangled  it.  'Tis  right  there  on 
the  job,  mindin'  its  own  business,  workin'  over- 
time, with  as  little  fuss  as  may  be  an*  no  thanks 
at  all,  t'  turn  out  courage  an'  hope  an'  kindness 
fresh  for  the  day's  need.  But  in  all  the  world  'tis 
God  help  a  man  once  he's  seen  his  soul  lyin' 
dead  at  his  feet !  There's  always  a  land  left,  no 
doubt,  where  the  law  can't  find  a  man,  a  new 
place,  on  the  face  o'  the  earth,  t'  hide  from  what 
can't  follow ;  but  there's  no  new  land  for  the 
man  who's  once  clapped  eyes  on  his  own  dead 
soul.  An'  that  was  the  trouble  with  poor  Ginger- 
bread Jenkins.  He  come  blithe  from  the  north 
coast,  by  way  o'  the  Maine  woods,  t'  log  out 
here  on  Bbttle  River,  a  lad  as  clean  as  morning, 
with  a  taste  for  stars  an'  trees  an'  the  habit  o' 
chuckles,  an'  with  the  same  word  for  all  women 
as  for  the  mother  he'd  write  to  every  Sunday 


GINGERBREAD  185 

night,  by  the  light  of  a  lantern  in  his  bunk.  But 
'twas  no  great  tale  of  years,  as  the  years  fall 
upon  careful  men,  before  Pale  Peter's  whiskey 
an'  the  lights  o'  Swamp's  End  had  turned  him 
into  the  gray-headed,  frowzy  little  grouch  that  he 
was  before  John  Fairmeadow  got  hold  of  him. 

" '  Good  God  1 '  they'd  say,  that  knew  him 
once,  '  is  that  young  Gingerbread  Jenkins  ? ' 

" '  Jus'  the  leavin's,'  says  I.  '  That  used  t'  be 
Gingerbread  Jenkins.  The  devil's  picked  him 
t'  the  bones.' 

" '  Quick  work,'  says  they. 

"  'The  devil  feeds  fast  on  a  good  man,'  says  I, 
1  when  not  interrupted.' 

"  But  Gingerbread  didn't  know. 

"  '  Rowl,'  Gingerbread  whined  once,  last  win- 
ter, when  he  come  crawlin'  back  t'  camp  from 
Swamp's  End,  all  a-jump  from  liquor,  '  I've  had 
my  fling,  now,  and  I'm  through.  I  know  when 
/  got  enough.1 

"  '  Huh  ! '  says  I. 

"  '  Yes,  I  am,'  says  he.     '  I'm  through.1 

" '  You're  through,  all  right,  'til  you  make 
another  stake,'  says  I,  '  an'  get  the  stomach  t' 
hold  it  just  where  you'll  put  it.' 

"  '  I'm  gettin'  too  old  t'  travel  with  the  boys,' 
says  he.  '  I'm  tired,  too,  Rowl ;  an'  I  want  t'  get 
somebody  t'  take  care  o'  me.' 

"  '  Who  might  that  be  ? '  says  I. 


186  GINGERBREAD 

"  '  Well,'  says  he,  '  a  woman.' 

"  '  It's  been  done  before,'  says  I. 

"  '  Jus'  about  time  I  married,'  says  he, '  an'  set- 
tled down.' 

"  '  It's  been  done  before,'  says  I,  '  by  men  like 
you.' 

"  '  Yes,'  says  he  ;  '  that's  the  way  it  goes,  as  a 
usual  thing.  You  see,  Rowl,  it's  natural.  When 
a  man  gets  t'  my  age  he's  pretty  much  always 
had  his  fill ;  an'  then  he  just  naturally  marries 
an'  settles  down.' 

"  '  What  you  gettin'  married  for?''  says  I. 

"  '  Well,'  says  he,  '  nothin'  like  a  good  woman 
t'  steady  a  man.  You  take  a  good  woman, 
Rowl,  an'  if  she's  been  well  fetched  up  an'  care- 
ful of  herself,  she'll  be  clever  at  that,  as  well  as 
useful  in  other  ways.  That's  the  business  o' 
women.  A  good  woman,  Rowl — a  sweet  little 
womanly  sort  o'  girl  who's  lived  all  her  life  in 
her  own  home  an'  not  seen  too  much  o'  the  world 
— is  jus*  the  sort  o'  wife  a  man  who's  lived  too 
free  will  get  for  himself  if  he  knows  what  he's 
about.  An'  a  man  who's  lived  too  free  isn't  the 
sort  t'  be  fooled  in  a  little  matter  like  that.  I 
know  you,  Rowl,'  says  he,  '  an'  I  know  you're  no 
hand  for  matrimony ;  but  you're  makin'  a  big 
mistake.  There  ain't  nothin'  in  the  world  like  a 
good  woman  t'  take  care  of  a  man,  an'  steady 
him,  when  he's  had  his  fill.  I  been  thinkin',' 
says  he,  '  that  if  I  went  slow,  an'  picked  'em 


GINGERBREAD  187 

over,  an'  chose  with  my  eyes  open,  I  might  get 
the  right  sort  t'  look  after  me.  I'd  be  a  sight 
better  off,'  says  he,  '  with  a  little  homestead  out 
here,  an'  a  wife  t'  keep  it,  than  I  am  sleepin'  in  a 
bunk-house  an'  pushin'  my  stake  over  the  bars 
o'  Swamp's  End.  An'  anyhow,'  says  he,  '  I'm 
tired  o'  liquor.' 

"  '  You  got  a  little  woman  handy  ? '  says  I. 

" '  Not  handy,'  says  he ;  '  but  back  where  I 
come  from,  Rowl,  there's  a  little  girl  that  used  t' 
be  wonderful  fond  o'  me.  She's  a  comfortable 
little  thing,  too,  Rowl,  an'  might  answer  very 
well,  if  I  give  her  a  fair  show  in  the  beginning. 
A  man  ought  t'  give  a  little  girl  like  that  a 
chance  t'  get  the  hang  o'  things  before  he  passes 
judgment  on  whether  she's  goin'  t'  do  or  not. 
There's  many  a  man  that  doesn't ;  but  as  for  me, 
I'm  not  o'  that  kind — I  got  feelin's.  I  been 
thinkin'  o'  the  little  thing  back  home,'  says  he, 
'  but  I  haven't  quite  made  up  my  mind.' 

"  '  How  long  is  it  since  you've  saw  her  ? '  says  I. 

"  '  She's  not  overly  old  yet,'  says  he. 

"  '  What  I  meant  t'  say,'  says  I,  '  is  how  long  is 
it  since  she's  saw  you  f ' 

'"A  man,'  says  he,  'don't  change  much  in 
fifteen  year.' 

"  '  That's  all  right,'  says  I ;  'but  the  thing  for 
you  t'  do,  jus'  now,  Gingerbread,  is  t'  report  t' 
the  office  an'  go  swampin'  the  new  road  t'  the 
landin'  on  Round  Island  Lake.' 


1 88  GINGERBREAD 

"  '  Swampin'  ! '  says  he.  '  Me — swampin' 
again !  You  jus'  wait  'til  I  get  married,  Rowl, 
an'  I'll  show  you  what  a  man  like  me  can  do.' 

"  '  Nothin'  like  a  little  swampin','  says  I,  '  t' 
show  a  man  jus'  what  he  really  can  do.'  " 

Rowl  paused  in  the  tale. 

And  that  was  Gingerbread  Jenkins :  that  was 
the  Gingerbread  Jenkins  of  the  old  days  and  of 
the  days  not  long  past.  Rowl's  listeners  were 
well  aware  of  it.  But  there  was  a  new  Ginger- 
bread Jenkins ;  and  it  was  concerning  the  new 
man  that  the  listeners  were  curious.  They  knew 
that  John  Rowl  knew  and  would  enlighten  them-; 
and  they  drew  a  little  closer  to  the  fire  and  to  the 
old  woodsman  who  was  telling  the  tale. 


XIX 

THE  BOY  HE  USED  TO  KNOW 

"IT  "IT  TELL,"  Rowl  went  on,  "  as  you  know, 

\/\/  an'  as  everybody  knows,  Ginger- 
^  »  bread  Jenkins  went  home,  after  the 
drive  o'  that  year,  t'  fetch  a  wife  t'  keep  the 
homestead  he  was  bound  t'  have. 

"  '  I'll  be  back  in  the  fall,  Rowl,'  says  he,  '  with  a 
tidy  little  wife  t'  make  home  attractive  an'  keep 
me  straight.' 

"  '  Ay,'  says  I. 

"  '  I've  had  my  fill,'  says  he,  '  an'  I'm  goin'  t' 
settle  down.  Pm  wise,'  says  he,  '  t'  what's  good 
for  me.' 

"  '  God  help  him  ! '  thinks  I ;  '  he's  a  hard  lesson 
t'  learn  at  the  hand  o'  the  Almighty's  law,  an' 
may  take  unkindly  t'  the  teachinV 

"  What  the  little  girl  that  used  t'  love  the 
young  eyes  an'  soul  of  him  said,  God  knows  ! 
but  I'm  thinkin'  she  blushed  ashamed,  when  the 
leavin's  o'  young  Gingerbread  Jenkins  croaked 
o'  love,  an'  that  she  was  frightened,  too,  an'  sick 
at  heart,  an'  that  she  prayed  with  tears,  that  night, 
in  her  white  little  bed,  because  the  Almighty  had 
given  her  new  an'  sadder  knowledge  o'  the  mys- 
tery o'  men.  Anyhow,  there  was  never  a  word 

189 


190    The   BOY   HE    USED   to   KNOW 

of  her  from  Gingerbread  Jenkins  when  he  turned 
up  alone  in  the  fall  o'  the  year  ;  nor  has  there 
been  since.  She's  back  there,  now,  I'm  thinkin', 
with  the  grief  an'  loneliness  that  come  t'  women 
who  love  an'  are  ill-taught  about  love  by  the  men 
they  glorify.  As  for  Gingerbread  Jenkins,  he'd 
been  back  home,  not  only  t'  old  places,  but  t' 
other  years  ;  an'  memory  had  taught  him  the 
change  in  his  own  soul,  an'  he  was  broken  when 
he  come  again  t'  the  woods. 

"  '  I  been  back  home,  Rowl,'  says  he ;  '  but  I 
didn't  stay  overlong.' 

"  'You  stopped  at  Swamp's  End,'  says  I,  'on 
the  way  back.' 

"  'Jus'  for  a  little  liquor,'  says  he.  'You  see, 
Rowl,  liquor's  like  medicine  to  a  man  like  me.' 

"  '  Yes  ? '  says  I. 

"  '  I  don't  care  nothin'  about  it  no  more/  says 
he.  '  It  ain't  a  beverage ;  it's  jus'  medicine — for 
a  man  like  me.' 

"  '  Tis  a  poor  cure,'  says  I,  '  for  a  man's  soul.' 

"  '  Well,  Rowl,'  says  he,  '  I  got  a  good  deal  t' 
forget.' 

"  '  See  the  folks  ? '  says  I. 

"  '  Spent  most  o'  my  time,'  says  he, '  with  a  lit- 
tle boy.' 

"  '  That's  queer,'  says  I. 

"  ' No,'  says  he ;  'it  ain't  queer  at  all.' 

"  '  Never  knew,'  says  I,  '  that  you  was  much  of 
a  hand  for  children.' 


The   BOY  HE    USED   to    KNOW    191 

" '  Well,'  says  he,  '  I  used  t'  know  this  little 
feller  real  well.' 

"  '  Your  nephew  ? '  says  I. 

"  '  No,'  says  he  ;  '  not  my  nephew.  But  I  used 
t'  know  him,'  says  he,  '  real  well.' 

"  '  'Tis  a  wonder  he  knew  you,'  says  I. 

"  '  Well,'  says  he,  '  he  had  some  doubts.' 

"  '  He  must  be  growed  up  by  this  time,'  says  I. 

" '  Well,  no/  says  he ;  'he  wasn't  growed  at 
all.  Somehow  or  other,'  says  he,  '  he  was  jus' 
the  same  jolly  little  feller  I  used  t'  know — real 
well.' 

"  '  That's  queer,'  says  I. 

"  '  You  see,  Rowl,'  says  he,  '  all  my  folks  is 
dead,  an'  the  folks  that  used  t'  know  Jimmie 
Jenkins,  an*  t'  be  real  fond  of  him,  too,  has  been 
so  busy,  the  last  fifteen  years,  that  they  couldn't 
quite  take  t'  Gingerbread  Jenkins.  After  I  made 
a  little  call  on — on — well,  on  an  old  friend  o'  mine 
— I  passed  a  good  deal  o'  time  alone;  an'  one 
day  where  I  was  passin'  the  candy-shop  I  found 
this  little  feller  lookin'  in  the  window.  The  little 
monkey !  There  he  was,  Rowl,  lookin'  in  the 
window  o'  the  candy-shop,  an'  pickin'  an'  choos- 
in'  like  mad.  The  little  tyke !  I  used  t'  know 
him  real  well.  A  nice  little  feller,  Rowl — jus'  a 
real  nice  little  boy  I  used  t'  know — with  blue 
eyes  an'  freckles — an'  a  little  grin,  Rowl,  an'  a 
little  laugh,  an'  a  little  head  full  o'  the  nicest  kind 
o'  mischief.  He  didn't  know  no  wickedness, 


192     The    BOY   HE    USED    to    KNOW 

Rowl ;  an'  he  didn't  know  no  trouble,  an'  every- 
body loved  him,  too,  you  bet !  So  after  that  me 
an'  him  passed  a  good  deal  o'  time  together. 
We  went  t'  the  woods,  Rowl,  an'  t'  Sunday- 
school,  an'  t'  the  circus  lot,  an'  down  the  river, 
an'  up  t'  the  school-yard  when  the  boys  was  in, 
an'  jus'  everywhere  else  where  the  boys  used  t' 
go  when  I  was  a  boy  like  him.  An'  then,  Rowl, 
it  struck  me  that  he  was  a  bit  too  young  an'  nice 
t'  be  hangin'  around  with  a  man  like  me.  Seemed 
t'  me,  somehow,  that  I  might  spoil  him.  I 
wanted  to  keep  him  friendly  an'  good  ;  an'  so  I 
thought  I'd  better  come  back  t'  the  woods  where 
Gingerbread  Jenkins  was  born.' 

" '  Seems  t'  me,'  says  I,  '  that  I,  too,  used  t' 
know  that  little  feller.' 

"  '  You  did,'  says  he ;  '  but  he  was  a  bit  older, 
then.' 

"  '  He  was  a  nice  clean  boy,'  says  I,  '  when  I 
first  knowed  him.' 

"  '  Was  he  ? '  says  he.    '  Really  mean  it,  Rowl?' 

"  'A  good  boy,'  says  I. 

"  '  Rowl,'  says  he,  all  at  once,  '  I've  lost  my 
soul ! ' 

"  '  It  may  be  lyin'  around  somewhere  handy,' 
says  I.  '  I  wouldn't  worry.' 

" '  I've  lost  it ! '  says  he. 

"  '  Well,'  says  I,  '  when  a  man  once  misses  his 
soul,  an*  wants  it  back  again,  he  can  usually  find 
it,  if  he  takes  the  trouble  t'  look  for  it  right  away.' 


The    BOY  HE    USED    to    KNOW    193 

"  '  I'll  never  find  mine,1  says  he. 

"  '  Not,'  says  I,  '  if  you  carry  your  candle  in  a 
bottle.' 

"  '  I'm  not  goin'  t'  carry  my  candle  in  a  bottle,' 
says  he. 

"  '  No  ? '  says  I. 

" '  No,  sir,'  says  he ;  '  never  no  more,  John 
Rowl!' 

" '  I've  heard  talk  like  that  before,  Ginger- 
bread,' says  I. 

"  '  Yes,'  says  he  ;  '  but  I  mean  it' " 

Rowl  paused  to  sigh. 


XX 

A  LITTLE  ABOUT  LIFE 

"  f  I  A  HEY  care  no  more  for  a  man's  soul  in 
the  shanty  saloons  of  a  Western 
-*-  lumber-town,"  the  sealer  continued, 
presently,  "  than  for  a  sour  tin  can.  They  toss 
'em  into  the  garbage-pail,  or  throw  'em  into  the 
back  yard,  with  the  same  wish  t'  keep  their 
barrooms  clear  o'  litter.  In  Pale  Peter's  place  at 
Swamp's  End,  an'  in  every  other  ramshackle, 
squattin',  packin'-box-an' -tar-paper  dive  o'  the 
town,  from  the  Cafe  of  Egyptian  Delights  t'  the 
Lumber-jacks'  Rest,  they  never  gave  Ginger- 
bread Jenkins  a  show.  When  Swamp's  End 
goes  west-by-north  on  the  trail  o'  the  lumber 
camps,  I'm  thinkin',  there'll  be  a  marvellous 
heap  o'  castaway  souls  left  with  the  tin  cans  an' 
ol'  shoes  on  the  site  of  it.  Gingerbread  Jenkins 
worked  on  Bottle  River,  last  winter,  an'  wasted 
in  the  saloons  o'  Swamp's  End.  'You  see, 
Rowl,'  says  he,  'I  got  a  good  deal  t'  forget' 
'Twas  a  week's  harsh  labour  to  his  middle  in 
snow  for  a  night's  waste  lined  up  at  Pale  Peter's 
bar  with  a  drove  o'  squealin'  swine.  '  You  see, 
Rowl,  I've  lost  my  soul,'  says  he,  '  an'  I  jus'  got 
t'  forget  it.'  A  wonderful  fuss  he  made  about 

194 


A    LITTLE   ABOUT   LIFE          195 

that  soul  when  well  gone  in  liquor.  You  know 
the  way  he  went  on.  There  was  never  a  man 
so  drunk — none  so  foul — that  he  wouldn't  but- 
tonhole an'  bore  him  with  a  whimperin'  tale  of 
his  state  an'  condition  an'  what  he  used  t'  be. 
But  that  was  Gingerbread  Jenkins.  'Twas  spree 
in  town  t'  forget  the  shivers  in  camp.  That  was 
Gingerbread  Jenkins  before  John  Fairmeadow 
followed  him  out  t'  the  middle  o'  No  Man's  Lake 
an'  opened  his  bottle  in  a  blizzard  o'  wind  an' 
snow. 

"  I  mind  I  encountered  Gingerbread  Jenkins, 
shakin'  with  the  liquor  o'  three  days  gone,  an' 
drunk  with  the  day's  drinks,  leanin'  over  Pale 
Peter's  bar,  that  night.  A  mad  night,  too — with 
the  crews  from  Kettle  an'  Big  Bend  paid  off  an' 
spendin',  an'  an  Irish  outfit  from  the  Yellow 
Tree  works  t'  help  raise  hell. 

"  '  Come  out  o'  this ! '  says  I. 

"  '  No  time,'  says  he. 

" '  No  time,  ye  fool ! '  says  I.  '  You've  no 
time  ? ' 

"  '  You  see,  Rowl,'  says  he,  '  I'm  busy.' 

"  '  'Tis  no  strange  occupation,'  says  I.  '  You've 
worked  hard  at  it  heretofore  an'  might  rest.' 

"  '  All  the  same,'  says  he,  '  I'm  busy.' 

"  '  Gingerbread,'  says  I,  'what's  this  new  job?' 

'"Well,  Rowl,'  says  he,  'I'm  insultin'  the 
devil.' 

"'Why?'  says  I. 


196          A    LITTLE   ABOUT   LIFE 

" '  I  don't  like  him,'  says  he.  '  He  irritates 
me.  An'  anyhow,'  says  he,  '  I  got  my  idea.' 

"  '  'Tis  a  thankless  profession,'  says  I. 

"'You  see,'  says  he,  'I'm.  doin'  jus'  as  much 
damage  as  I  can  in  the  time  I  got  left.' 

" '  You'll  never  get  even,'  says  I. 

" '  Not  if  I  waste  my  time  like  this,'  says  he. 
'  I  ain't  got  much  time,'  says  he  ;  '  but  by  God  ! 
Rowl,  I'll  make  the  OF  Man  squirm  while  I  can. 
I'll  sauce  him !  I'm  fightin'  mad,  Rowl.  Never 
was  so  mad  before.  I  want  t'  get  even,  God 
knows  ! '  says  he.  '  I  want  t'  get  as  near  even 
as  I  can  with  the  devil  that  misled  me.  I  ain't 
got  much  time  left,  neither,  t'  do  it  in  ;  but  I'm 
usin'  my  time  t'  the  best  advantage.'  With  that 
he  turned  t'  the  bar.  'What's  t'  become  o'  all 
you  boys,  anyhow?'  says  he,  lookin'  the  length 
of  it.  '  Eh  ? '  says  he.  '  Is  you  boys  got  t' 
thinkin'  you  can  dodge  the  lightnin'  o'  the  Lord 
God  A' mighty?  All  hands  at  this  here  bar,' 
says  he, '  is  a-goin'  t'  hell.  That's  what !  You're 
hell  bent,  you  poor  damn'  fools  an'  sots  an'  pigs. 
Haven't  I  warned  you  ?  Eh  ?  Haven't  I  been 
hangin'  over  this  here  bar  for  the  last  half  hour 
a-tellin'  you  you're  goin'  t'  hell?  You  can't 
blame  me  for  it.'  He  called  the  bartender, 
then.  '  Charlie,  boy,'  says  he,  in  a  whisper, 
hardly  able  t'  talk  on  account  of  his  cold,  '  pass 
the  bottle.  I'm  athirst  an'  parched  for  rum. 
Look  here,  boys,'  says  he,  when  he'd  swallowed 


A    LITTLE  ABOUT   LIFE          197 

his  whiskey.  '  There'll  be  some  o'  you  get  t' 
hell  before  I  do  if  the  rum  holds  out  an'  the 
signs  read  true.  An'  when  you  come  face  t' 
face  with  OP  Nick — an'  when  the  choir  o'  wee 
black  imps  waves  their  little  red-hot  pitchforks 
an'  strikes  up  the  hymn  o'  welcome — an'  when 
Ol'  Nick  takes  you  by  the  hand — you  may  do 
me  a  favour,  boys,  if  you've  the  mind. 

"  '  "  Hist,  Your  Honour  !  "  says  you  ;  "  there's 
a  hand  back  there  at  Swamp's  End  that  isn't  no 
friend  o'  yourn." 

«  «  «  j»u  never  believe  it,"  says  he. 

«  <  «  You'd  best  beware,"  says  you  ;  "  he's  in- 
sultin'  you  daily,  an'  he'd  knife  you  in  the  back 
if  he  got  the  chance." 

'""At  Swamp's  End?"  says  he.  "An'  no 
friend  o'  mine?" 

" '  "  The  same,"  says  you. 

'""  Huh!"  says  he.  "Well,  well!  Much 
'bliged.  I'll  have  t'  look  into  this.  My  men  is 
doin'  poorly  in  the  lumber-woods  these  times." 

"  '  "  Gingerbread  Jenkins  he's  called,"  says 
you. 

" '  "  I've  many  friends  o'  the  name,"  says  he. 

"  '  "  He's  doubtless  down  on  the  books,"  says 
you,  "  as  James  Alfred  Jenkins  o'  Argyle  Harbour 
on  the  North  Coast.  Don't  you  make  no  mistake 
about  the  Jenkins,"  says  you,  "  or  you'll  rue  it. 
An*  don't  you  let  him  in  here.  You  let  Ginger- 
bread Jenkins  go  Aloft  in  peace.  Otherwise, 


198          A    LITTLE   ABOUT   LIFE 

Your  Honour,"  says  you,  "  there'll  be  a  mutiny 
in  hell  before  you  got  time  t'  clap  Gingerbread 
Jenkins  in  irons." 

" '  I  reckon,'  says  Pale  Peter's  wee  little  boy, 
who  was  sittin'  on  the  bar  at  my  elbow,  '  that 
Gingerbread  Jenkins  would  never  get  in  if  /kep' 
hell.' 

"  Well,  well  1 "  Rowl  laughed,  in  a  large  and 
hearty  way,  "the  boys  howled  with  delight  an' 
bought  Gingerbread  Jenkins  another  drink."  He 
sighed.  "  God  help  him  I  "  said  he.  "  I  left  him, 
then,  preachin'  hell  an'  damnation,  between 
coughs,  in  that  roarin'  barroom,  t'  get  even  with 
the  devil,  while  time  was  left.  He'd  struck 
bottom,  all  right — an'  struck  hard,  too :  the  little 
Jimmie  Jenkins  that  Gingerbread  Jenkins  used  t' 
know  an'  still  loved. 

"  It  was  snowin'  too  hard  for  me  t'  take  the 
Bottle  River  trail  that  night.  There  was  a  big 
gale  blowin'  down — a  thick  nor' wester  at  thirty 
below.  Lord !  but  'twas  a  nasty  cold  night  in 
the  open.  I'd  small  stomach  for  the  tote-load 
from  Grass  Land  in'  through  the  Blasted  Cedar 
Muskeg  :  I'd  none  at  all  for  the  frost  an'  the  sweep 
o'  the  wind  on  No  Man's  Lake.  So  I  sat  in  the 
window  o'  Pale  Peter's  place — I'm  no  hand  with  a 
bottle — an'  watched  the  snow  drive  through  the 
light  that  fell  warm  an'  yellow  from  the  office.  I 
thought  a  deal  about  Gingerbread  Jenkins — per- 


A    LITTLE   ABOUT   LIFE          199 

haps  overmuch  an'  softly  for  the  harsh  kind  o' 
man  I  am.  I  remembered  the  day  that  he  come 
t'  the  Bottle  River  camp :  I  remembered  the 
clean,  live,  young  look  of  him,  an'  the  hope  he 
had,  an'  the  morning  song  on  his  lips,  an'  the 
love  o'  life  in  his  heart,  an'  the  unspoiled  soul 
that  was  his.  Well,  well  I  he  was  a  good  boy, 
was  Gingerbread  Jenkins — a  boy  with  a  straight 
back,  an'  free  shoulders,  an'  a  head  held  up,  an' 
eyes  that  never  shifted,  an'  a  laugh  that  wasn't 
afraid  of  itself  in  company.  I'm  older  than  him  ; 
an'  I  used  t'  think,  I  remember,  that  t'  Bottle 
River  at  last  had  come  a  boy  they  couldn't  spoil 
of  his  youth  an'  his  wages.  I  was  young,  then, 
after  all.  I  was  only  a  poor  damned  fool.  I  didn't 
know,  as  I  know  now,  that  never  a  boy  was  born 
they  wouldn't  ruin  on  Bottle  River.  Ruin? 
Ay  ;  never  a  boy  they  wouldn't  ruin  for  the  sheer 
sport !  An'  I  kep'  right  on  believin'  in  young 
Gingerbread  Jenkins,  until,  one  Saturday  night, 
he  went  out  t'  Swamp's  End,  with  ol'  Bum  Lush 
an'  Billy  the  Beast,  t'  learn  about  life. 

"  '  T'  learn  jus'  a  little,'  says  he,  '  about  life.' 

"  '  Don't  you  go,  Jimmie,'  says  I. 

"  '  Jus'  this  once,'  says  he.     '  I  want  to.' 

"  '  Don't  you  do  it,'  says  I. 

" '  Jus'  once,'  says  he,  '  won't  do  no  harm.' 

"  '  Don't  you  go,'  says  I. 

"  '  Jus'  this  once,'  says  he.     '  I'll  only  look  on.' 

"  '  No,  no  ! '  says  I. 


200          A    LITTLE   ABOUT  LIFE 

"  '  Jus'  this  once,'  says  he. 

"  '  God  help  you,  Jimmie  ! '  says  I. 

"  '  Jus'  once,'  says  he. 

"  They  fetched  him  back  on  Monday  mornin'," 
Rowl  sighed,  "  pretty  well  informed.  After  that," 
he  added,  repeating  the  sigh,  "  he  was  what  you 
might  call  a  fairly  inquirin'  student.  An'  that's 
the  way  it  goes,"  he  declared,  scowling,  "with 
all  the  boys  that  come  loggin'  t'  these  woods." 

It  was  still  blowing  high.  The  fire  in  the  su- 
perintendent's office  had  burned  to  expiring  coals. 
No  comfortable  glow  of  light — no  red  warmth — 
no  genial  sparkle  and  crackling — proceeded  from 
it.  The  room  was  cold.  And  now  the  frosty 
gale  intruded.  It  was  blowing  a  blizzard  out- 
side ;  all  the  world  of  the  woods  was  bitter  with 
cold  and  wind  and  driven  snow — inimical  with 
night.  The  superintendent  coaxed  the  fire  to  a 
blaze  and  heaped  it  with  dry  wood ;  and  while 
it  sputtered  and  roared  with  the  lusty  intention 
of  recovering  itself,  they  waited  for  the  senti- 
mental old  sealer  to  resume  the  tale  of  Ginger- 
bread Jenkins. 

"John  Fairmeadow,"  he  went  on,  "tracked 
Gingerbread  Jenkins  from  Pale  Peter's  place  t' 
the  middle  o'  No  Man's  Lake,  the  night  I  was 
tellin'  you  about,  an'  fetched  him  home  on  his 
back ;  an'  within  five  days  from  that  time,  Ginger- 
bread Jenkins  was  converted." 


A    LITTLE   ABOUT   LIFE         201 

"  Was  what  ?  "  said  the  superintendent. 

"  Converted  ;  'tis  the  only  word  I  know  for  the 
thing." 

"Who?" 

"  Gingerbread  Jenkins,  I'm  tellin'  you  ! " 

The  superintendent  laughed. 

"  You  may  call  it  what  you  like,"  Rowl  replied, 
in  a  growl,  "  an'  you  may  laugh  to  suit  the 
word ;  but  you  don't  prove  nothin'  t'  me.  I 
know  that  John  Fairmeadow  tracked  Ginger- 
bread Jenkins  t'  the  middle  o'  No  Man's  Lake, 
that  night,  in  a  gale  that  chased  me  indoors,  an' 
you  wouldn't  face  t'  save  life,  an'  that  John  F*air- 
meadow  found  him  there,  broken  out  with  the 
snakes,  tryin'  t'  open  a  bottle  o'  whiskey  with 
frozen  hands,  an'  that  he  carried  him  home  on 
his  own  back,  God  knows  how !  What  John 
Fairmeadow  done  to  Gingerbread  Jenkins,  when 
he  got  him  home,  I  don't  know,  no  more'n  you 
do;  but  I  do  know  that  he  kep'  Gingerbread 
Jenkins  in  his  own  room  over  One  Eyed  Mag's 
for  five  days,  an'  that  at  the  end  o'  that  time 
Gingerbread  Jenkins  was  converted,  for  John 
Fairmeadow  toF  me  so,  an'  Gingerbread  Jenkins 
didn't  deny  it.  An'  I  know,  too,"  Rowl  went  on, 
his  voice  rising,  "that  Gingerbread  Jenkins 
wouldn't  stir  out-o* -doors  without  havin'  Mag's 
little  Angel  by  the  hand,  an'  that  not  a  man  o' 
Swamp's  End  would  ask  Gingerbread  Jenkins  t' 
take  a  drink  when  little  Angel  was  along.  An* 


202          A    LITTLE   ABOUT   LIFE 

I  know,  moreover,"  he  concluded,  "  that  in  four 
weeks  Gingerbread  Jenkins  was  himself  again — 
that  he  came  back  t'  the  Big  Chance  Camp — 
that  in  three  months  he  was  rosy,  an'  clean,  an' 
strong,  an'  happy,  an'  no  more  afraid — that  he 
was  a  boss  on  the  Big  River  drive  o'  that  spring 
— an'  that  in  the  fall  o'  the  year  he  was  offered  a 
superintendent's  job  by  Ol'  Rat  Wallweather  o' 
the  Yellow  Forks  Lumber  Company." 

"  That's  a  good  deal  t'  know,"  said  the  super- 
intendent. 

"  No,  it  ain't,"  snapped  Rowl. 

"  It's  a  good  deal  t'  know." 

"  It's  the  kind  o'  thing  that  any  fool  can  find 
out  an'  know  that  wants  to." 

"Well,"  drawled  the  superintendent,  "I  ain't 
much  up  on  miracles." 

"  It's  nothin'  t'  know  at  alf  "  said  Rowl ;  "  but 
it's  a  devil  of  a  lot  to  explain  ' 


XXI 

THAT  MEASURE  OF  LOVE 

""W  T'OU  can  bet  your  life,"  Rowl  resumed, 
j(  "  that  they're  all  aware  in  hell  that  John 
-•-  Fairmeadow  is  on  the  job  in  this  sec- 
tion. John  Fairmeadow's  on  the  job  from  the 
Big  River  to  the  camps  o'  the  Logosh  Reserva- 
tion. There  isn't  a  barroom  in  four  hundred 
square  miles  where  he  can't  call  the  bartender 
Johnnie,  nor  a  bunk-house  where  he  isn't  at 
home  ;  an'  you  boys  know  it.  He's  a  big  man. 
I  mean  it :  he's  a  great  big  man — a  man  of  our 
kind,  and  big  by  our  scale.  It  took  a  man  big 
in  body  an'  heart  an'  faith — a  bigger  man  than 
me  in  the  ways  that  we  know  as  bigness — t'  put 
Gingerbread  Jenkins  on  his  back  in  the  middle 
o'  No  Man's  Lake  an'  fetch  him  t'  Swamp's  End 
through  the  wind  an'  snow  an'  frost  o'  that  night ; 
an*  it  takes  a  bigger  man  than  any  other  big  man 
I  ever  knew  t'  operate  in  a  religious  fashion, 
without  cant  an'  all  manner  o'  foolishness,  in  the 
bunk-houses  an'  bars  an'  dives  o'  these  woods. 
I'm  no  judge  o'  Christians,  havin'  handled  none 
in  my  business  ;  an'  I've  heard  ill  tales  o'  their 
state  in  these  days  ;  but  I  know  that  an  ounce  o' 
John  Fairmeadow  t'  the  gallon  o'  this  genera- 

203 


204         that   MEASURE   of  LOYE 

tion's  Christianity  would  cure  the  wrongs  o'  the 
world  in  a  day — an'  I  draw  my  own  conclusions. 
'Tis  said  by  the  boys  from  the  East  that  men 
don't  go  t'  church  no  more.  I  don't  know  : 
maybe  not.  I  don't  care.  Anyhow,  John  Fair- 
meadow's  a  minister  for  men  ;  he's  no  little  sister 
o'  the  rich. 

"  At  this  time  he  hast  headquarters  with  One 
Eyed  Mag,  which  keeps  the  Mother-Used-t'- 
Make-It  Restaurant,  near  the  depot  at  Swamp's 
End,  a  large  an'  flabby  lady,  not  open  t'  sus- 
picion, a  perfectly  respectable  person,  poor  soul ! 
on  account  o'  one  eye  an'  various  other  varieties 
o'  looks.  These  same  headquarters  was  a  home- 
made institution  o'  one  room  with  a  barred  win- 
dow for  the  confinement  an'  cure  o'  the  snakes. 
There  was  a  bit  of  a  mystery  at  Mag's,  too,  with 
which  the  parson  had  nothin'  t'  do.  'Twas  in 
the  shape  of  a  wee  small  girl — a  pretty  little 
rogue  called  Angel — which  Mag  foster-mothered 
like  a  lonely  hen ;  an'  'twas  this  child  that  had 
led  Gingerbread  Jenkins  around  by  the  hand  at 
Swamp's  End  while  the  wish  for  liquor  was  yet 
on  him.  'Twas  a  mystery  that  couldn't  be  ac- 
counted for  by  no  guessin'  the  boys  o'  Swamp's 
End  was  able  for.  'Twas  said  that  a  lady  from 
Big  Rapids  come  t'  see  the  child  when  nobody 
was  lookin' — a  real  lady  o'  fashion  with  reasons 
of  her  own — an'  I'm  able  t'  say,  as  it  turned  out, 


That     MEASURE   of   LOl/E         203 

that  a  lady  from  nearer  than  Big  Rapids  would 
often  slip  in  at  the  kitchen  door  of  a  dark  night 
t'  see  little  Angel  put  t'  bed  ;  but  it  wasn't  no 
lady  o'  fashion. 

"  '  I'm  a  converted  man,  parson,'  says  Ginger- 
bread Jenkins,  one  day  in  the  fall,  '  but  I'm  jus' 
as  much  ashamed  o'  myself  as  I  used  t'  be. 
Seems  t'  me,'  says  he,  '  that  a  converted  man 
ought  t'  be  doiri  somethin'.' 

"  '  You're  workin',  Gingerbread,'  says  the  par- 
son. 

"  '  Oh,  shucks  ! '  says  Gingerbread  ;  •  any  fool 
can  work.  I  mean  something  big  an'  real.' 

"  '  For  example,  what  ? '  says  the  parson. 

"  '  Well,'  says  Gingerbread  Jenkins,  '  takin' 
care  o'  somebody.' 

"  '  For  example,  who  ?  '  says  the  parson. 

"  '  Well,'  says  Gingerbread,  '  somebody,  any- 
how.' 

"  '  But  who  ? ' 

"  '  Well,'  says  Gingerbread,  '  a  woman.' 

"  The  parson  looked  Gingerbread  in  the  eye 
for  a  long  time.  '  So  ? '  says  he. 

"  '  Yes,'  says  Gingerbread  ;  '  seems  t'  me  that 
every  decent  man  ought  t'  be  takin'  care  of  a 
woman,  whether  he's  a  converted  Christian  man 
or  not.  What's  a  man/or  f  '  says  he.  '  An'  who 
else  is  goin'  t'  take  care  o'  them?  They  can't 
take  care  o'  themselves,  from  what  /  know  o' 
them.  An'  so  I'm  fixed  an'  determined  in  this,' 


206         That   MEASURE   of   LOl/E 

says  he,  '  that  a  decent  man  ought  t'  get  married, 
an'  settle  down,  an'  take  care  o'  somebody,  an' 
be  somebody.' 

"  '  Are  you  able  t'  take  care  of  anybody  ?'  says 
the  parson. 

"  '  I'm  able,'  says  Gingerbread,  '  if  I'm  fit.' 

"  '  Say  that  again,'  says  the  parson. 

"  '  I'm  able,'  says  Gingerbread,  '  if  I'm  fit.  But 
that's  what's  botherin'  me.  I've  lived  free,  in  my 
time,'  says  he,  '  an'  as  I  figure  it  out  there  isn't 
much  comin'  t'  the  man  that's  lived  free.  So  I'm 
not  askin'  much  in  the  way  of  a  woman.  The 
more  she'd  need  takin'  care  of,'  says  he,  '  the 
better  I'd  like  it.  You  see,'  says  he,  '  that's  a 
man's  business? 

"  'Say  that  again,'  says  the  parson. 

"  '  What's  the  matter  with  you,  anyhow  ? '  says 
Gingerbread  Jenkins.  '  You're  hard  o'  hearin', 
ain't  you  ? ' 

"  '  No,'  says  the  parson ;  'but  I'm  s' prised.' 

"  '  I  says,'  says  Gingerbread  Jenkins,  '  that  the 
more  she'd  need  takin'  care  of,  the  better  I'd  like  it.' 

"The  parson  jumped  up  an'  put  his  hands  on 
Gingerbread's  shoulders.  'Do  you  mean  it?' 
says  he.  '  Do  you  mean  it — or  are  you  talkin'  ?  ' 

"  '  Talkin'  be  hanged  ! '  says  Gingerbread 
Jenkins.  'I'm  not  give  t'  talkin'.  O'  course,  I 
mean  it  ! ' 

"  '  You're  a  big  man,  Gingerbread,'  says  the 
parson.  '  I  wonder  how  big.' 


That   MEASURE   of   LOYE        207 

"  '  I  don't  know,'  says  Gingerbread. 

"  '  How  big  ?  '  says  the  parson. 

"  '  Well/  says  Gingerbread,  '  you  better  meas- 
ure an'  see.' 

"  The  parson  walked  the  floor  in  a  deal  o' 
trouble.  By  an'  by  he  come  up  t'  Gingerbread 
Jenkins  again  an'  looked  him  right  in  the  eye. 
Itwas  then  towards  the  evenin',  John  Fairmeadow 
says.  An'  John  Fairmeadow  turned  Gingerbread 
Jenkins'  face  t'  the  window,  an'  looked  into  'his 
eyes,  an'  tried  t'  search  the  last  places  of  hisjsotial 
Gingerbread  Jenkins  says  that  he  couldnTi  Stand 
it  no  longer,  by  an'  by,  an'  that  he  looked!  away 
from  John  Fairmeadow's  eyes  t'  the  sunsBt<tlouds 
beyond  the  pines,  an*  that  he  was  afretiH;  'but 
didn't  quite  know  why.  '  Jimmier'tv^a^sfc^Qhd 
Fairmeadow,  'listen  t'  me  well  icjftntjfjgiblii'  t' 
measure  you,  now.  I  believe  you.  '.fcfeelieueein. 
your  humility  an'  in  your  love  6^  tJteiwxyfld'  for 
Love's  sake.  I  don't  misunderstands!  d/khbw. 
Love  healed  you,  whether  yoi\  fcsewiitpritibt  in 
these  words;  an'  now  'tis  in.  y»ia£e: heart  tkfo&fe; 
that  some  other  one  may  ifea  hea&d  byfLscvei 
also.  I  believe  that  you  want  a  woman  t''.take 
care  of — t'  guard  an'  cheris&cf^oia/fefae  ilt&'b'  life 
— because  you  believe  it  t'  be  the  dn£t^J  oforMncd 
care  for  women.  ListeB-/t^anenBE5|  Jiknmfe' Jen- 
kins: I'm  goin'  t'  meaaures^Diirtne^riYoaliriaiy 
do,  if  you  will,  what  no  other  Christian  rhanril 
know  or  ever  knewte^ote^dmostaDfiallpiGolJ  h'elp 


208         That   MEASURE   oj    LOYE 

me  ! — not  I — would  do  for  Love's  sake.  Stand 
up,  Jimmie  Jenkins/  says  he,  '  an'  be  measured  by 
the  measure  o'  Love  ! ' 

"  Gingerbread  Jenkins  was  frightened.  '  What's 
all  this,  parson  ?  '  says  he.  '  What  you  mean  ? ' 

"  '  I  know  a  woman.' 

"  '  What  woman  ? ' 

"  '  A  needy  woman  with  a  heart  turned  towards 
a  love  just  like  this.' 

"  '  Then,'  says  Gingerbread  Jenkins,  '  fetch 
her  out.  If  I'm  fit,  I'm  willinV 

"  '  There's  little  Angel,'  says  the  parson. 

"  '  I  love  her,'  says  Gingerbread  Jenkins. 

"  '  She  has  a  mother.' 

" '  The  mother  o'  little  Angel ! '  says  Ginger- 
bread Jenkins.  '  I'm  not  fit.  She's  a  lady.' 

"  '  The  mother  o'  little  Angel,'  says  the  parson, 
'  is  no  lady.' 

"  '  No  lady  ? ' 

'"No  lady.' 

"  Gingerbread  Jenkins  jumped  away  from  him. 
'  What  you  sayin'  ? '  says  he.  '  I  can't  do  that ! 
I  can't !  Man,  I  tell  you  I  can't !  I'm  jus'  not 
able.' 

" '  No,'  says  John  Fairmeadow ;  '  no  man 
could  do  that.' 

" '  Speak  plain/  says  Gingerbread  Jenkins. 
'  Little  Angel's  mother  no  lady  ?  What  is  she 
then?' 

" '  What  have  you  been,  James  Jenkins  ? ' 


That   MEASURE   of  LOYE        209 

" '  I'm  not  what  I  was,'  says  Gingerbread 
Jenkins. 

"  '  Nor  is  she,'  says  the  parson. 

"  '  Parson,'  says  Gingerbread  Jenkins,  '  I  guess 
it's  jus'  about  time  for  you  t'  lead  in  prayer.  I'm 
tired,'  says  he.  '  I'm  all  tired  out.  My  heart's 
fixed  on  doin'  right,'  says  he  ;  '  but  I  don't  know 
what  is  right.' 

"  '  Nor  do  I,'  says  the  parson. 

"  Gingerbread  Jenkins  says  that  at  that  very 
minute  a  flood  o'  sunshine  broke  loose  from  the 
clouds  an'  made  the  whole  world  light." 

"And  so,"  said  the  superintendent,  "they  was 
married." 

"  They  was — in  due  course  o'  time." 

"  Risky,"  the  superintendent  observed. 

"The  mother  o'  little  Angel,"  Rowl  replied, 
"  was  as  sweet,  an'  pretty,  an'  modest  as  ever  a 
bride  could  be,  an'  shy  in  the  presence  o'  so 
much  joy.  An'  they're  all  away,  now — an' 
they'll  be  up  in  Saskatchewan  in  the  spring. 
You'll  never  see  Gingerbread  Jenkins  in  these 
parts  no  more.  I've  noticed  that  a  man  o'  good 
courage,"  Rowl  concluded,  "  will  usually  unravel 
a  good  endin'  from  the  tangle  of  his  life." 


XXII 

ON    THE    GRADE 

FAIRMEADOW'S  ministry  to  these  great 
woods  had  a  gentler  aspect  than  that  of 
denunciatory  preaching  and  altercation. 
There  were  times,  indeed,  when,  in  ease  of  de- 
parting souls,  he  became  a  man  of  exquisite  ten- 
derness. When,  for  example,  it  came  time  for 
Mike  Finnerty,  the  Cant-hook  road-monkey,  to 
die  in  a  little  room  above  Pale  Peter's  saloon  at 
Swamp's  End,  whither  he  had  been  taken  from 
the  barroom  floor,  far  gone  in  pneumonia,  noth- 
ing would  do  the  old  Irishman  but  he  must  have 
John  Fairmeadow  come  to  shrive  him.  Fair- 
meadow  was  not  at  Swamp's  End.  Fairmeadow 
was  off  on  the  trails.  Where  ?  Beyond  Cedar 
Long  Swamp,  they  said,  and  bound  north  to  the 
Snake  Stream  camps.  A  message  to  the  Red 
Company's  cutting  might  intercept  him.  It  did  : 
it  caught  John  Fairmeadow  in  the  nick  of  time — 
his  feet  were  fairly  on  the  white  trail  to  the  north 
— and  Fairmeadow  made  for  Swamp's  End  on  a 
dog-trot  which  never  let  up  until  late  at  night 
the  lights  of  Pale  Peter's  were  visible  in  the 
wintry  darkness.  Mike  Finnerty  had  come  to 


ON    THE    GRADE  211 

the  end  of  a  long  career  of  furious  living.  In 
the  last  years  of  it  he  had  been  a  shrivelled  little 
road-monkey  in  the  meanest  camps  of  the  state 
— a  gray,  wrinkled,  morose  little  man,  given  to 
silence  in  camp  and  to  garrulous  ill-temper  in 
his  cups  in  town.  It  was  all  over,  now,  how- 
ever ;  and  it  may  be  that  he  was  frightened  by 
the  prospect  of  this  sudden  change  to  that  which, 
except  for  priestly  teaching,  had  been  a  mystery 
to  him  all  his  days. 

"  Is  that  you,  parson  ?  "  he  whispered. 

Fairmeadow  took  his  hand. 

"  I'm  glad  ye've  come,"  said  Mike.  "  I  got  t' 
die,  they're  tellin'  me." 

It  was  evident  that  he  had  to  die. 

"  Ye'll  answer,"  said  Mike. 

Fairmeadow  pressed  the  old  man's  hand. 

"Ye'll  do,"  Mike  repeated.  "  Ye're  priest 
enough — for  me." 

He  was  anxious,  it  seemed,  for  the  soul  that 
was  about  to  depart  from  his  ill-kept  and  de- 
graded body ;  and  he  was  in  pain,  and  turning 
very  weak. 

"  Parson,"  said  he,  presently,  with  a  know- 
ing little  wink,  "  I  want  ye  t'  fix  it  for  me." 

"  Fix  it,  Mike  ?  " 

"  Sure,  ye  know  what  I  mean,"  Mike  replied. 
"  I  want  ye  t'  fix  it." 

"  Fix  it,  Mike  ?  " 

"  Fix  it  for  me." 


212  OAT    THE   GRADE 

"  Mike,"  said  Fairmeadow,  "  I  can't  fix  it  for 
you.' 

"  Can't  fix  it?  "  said  the  dying  man,  in  amaze- 
ment. "Then  what  the  hell  did  ye  come  for?" 

"  To  show  you,"  Fairmeadow  answered 
gently,  "how you  can  fix  it." 

"Me  fix  it?" 

"You." 

"Me!" 

Fairmeadow  explained,  then,  the  scheme  of 
redemption,  according  to  his  creed — the  atone- 
ment and  salvation  by  faith.  Mike  listened. 
Presently  he  nodded  comprehendingly.  He 
continued  to  listen  absorbed — and  still  with 
amazement — all  the  time  nodding  his  under- 
standing. "  \3\\-huh  !  "  he  muttered,  when  Fair- 
meadow  had  done,  as  one  who  says,  "I  see/" 
He  said  no  other  word  before  he  died.  Just, 
"Uh-^w^/" — to  express  enlightenment.  And 
when,  later,  it  came  time  for  him  to  die,  he  still 
held  tight  to  Fairmeadow's  finger,  muttering, 
now  and  again,  "\J\\-huhf  \J\i-huh!" — like  a 
man  to  whom  has  come  some  great,  astounding 
revelation. 

When  Long  Jock  McKenzie  lay  dying  in  the 
hospital  at  Big  Rapids — a  screen  about  his  cot 
in  the  hospital  ward — it  was  John  Fairmeadow 
who  sat  with  him,  as  he  was  used  to  sitting,  in 
those  days,  with  all  dying  lumber-jacks. 


ON   THE   GRADE  213 

It  was  Fairmeadow  who  told  Long  Jock  that 
the  end  was  near. 

"Nearing  the  landing,  parson?"  Long  Jock 
asked,  with  a  smile. 

Fairmeadow  nodded. 

"  Nearing  the  last  landing,"  the  lumber-jack 
repeated. 

"Almost  there,  Jock." 

The  lumber-jack  pondered.  "  I've  a  heavy 
load,  parson,"  said  he,  presently.  "  I've  a  heavy 
load,"  he  sighed. 

Long  Jock  was  a  four-horse  teamster,  used  to 
hauling  logs  from  the  woods  to  the  landing  at 
the  lake.  For  years  he  had  humoured  these  great 
loads  over  the  logging-roads — easing  them  on 
the  down  grades,  calling  to  his  horses  on  the  up 
grades.  And  it  seemed,  now,  that  he  fancied  the 
last  grade  to  be  an  insuperable  one. 

"Parson,"  he  asked,  "do  you  think  I  can 
make  the  grade  ?  " 

"  With  help,  Jock." 

McKenzie  said  nothing  for  a  moment.  Then 
he  looked  up.  "  You  mean,"  said  he,  "  that  I 
need  another  team  of  leaders  ?  " 

Fairmeadow  nodded. 

"  Another  team  of  leaders,"  the  lumber-jack 
repeated. 

"The  Great  Leader,  Jock." 

"  Oh,  I  know  what  you  mean,"  said  McKenzie. 
"  You  mean  that  I  need  the  help  of  Jesus  Christ." 


214  ON    THE    GRADE 

Again  Fairmeadow  nodded. 

"  To  make  this  grade,"  McKenzie  added. 

No  need  to  tell  what  Fairmeadow  said  then  to 
the  Scotch  teamster  in  his  last  extremity — what 
he  repeated,  according  to  his  faith,  about  repent- 
ance and  belief  and  the  infinite  love  of  God. 
Long  Jock  McKenzie  had  heard  it  all  before — 
long  before,  at  home,  being  Scottish  born — and 
had  not  utterly  forgotten,  prodigal  though  he 
was.  It  was  all  recalled  to  him,  now,  by  a  man 
whose  life  and  love  and  uplifted  heart  were  well 
known  to  him — by  John  Fairmeadow,  a  minister 
of  the  old  school. 

"Pray  for  me,"  said  he,  like  a  child. 

Long  Jock  McKenzie  died  that  night.  It  was 
a  gentle  passing.  He  had  said  never  a  word  in 
the  long  interval ;  but  just  before  his  last  breath 
was  drawn — while  Fairmeadow  still  held  his 
hand — he  opened  his  eyes,  looked  up,  and  signed 
for  the  minister  to  bend  near. 

Fairmeadow  leaned  close. 

McKenzie  whispered : 

"  Tell  the  boys  I  made  the  grade ! " 

Forthwith  he  departed. 

Fairmeadow's  ministry  was  to  men — to  twenty 
thousand  prodigals.  It  concerned  women,  too, 
perhaps  :  not  many  women — only  the  women 
whom  the  pale  men  of  the  towns  found  necessary 
to  their  gain — and  no  good  women,  at  all.  It 


ON   THE   GRADE  215 

was  Fairmeadow  who  held  the  consumptive  hand 
of  little  Liz  of  the  shuttered  red  house  near  by 
Swamp's  End  while  she  lay  dying  alone  in  her 
tousled  bed.  It  was  a  black  night  in  the  spring. 
Swamp's  End  was  deep  in  mud.  The  trails  were 
black  and  soggy.  The  wind  came  rushing  from 
east — a  black,  wet  wind,  moaning  about  the 
shuttered  red  house  and  shaking  the  flimsy 
structure  to  its  foundations. 

The  doctor  from  Big  Rapids  had  gone. 

"  Am  I  dyin',  parson  ?  "  little  Liz  asked. 

"  Yes,  my  girl." 

"Dyin'?" 

"  Yes,  my  girl." 

"Now  ?  "  little  Liz  exclaimed.    "  Dyin' — now  f  " 

"Presently,  child." 

"  Mother ! "  little  Liz  moaned.    "  Oh,  mother !  " 

Little  Liz  was  frightened.  She  was  dreadfully 
frightened.  Dying?  And — now?  The  poor 
little  thing  began  to  sob  for  her  mother  with  all 
her  heart  Mag?  No;  she  didn't  want  Mag. 
She  wanted  her  mother.  But  nobody  came. 
Perhaps  it  was  just  as  well.  John  Fairmeadow 
was  there — big,  kind,  clean  John  Fairmeadow. 
I  conceive  with  what  tenderness  he  comforted 
the  little  Magdalen — how  that  his  big  hand  was 
soft  and  warm  enough  to  serve  in  that  extremity 
into  which  no  mother  could  enter  now.  I  fancy 
that  little  Liz  of  the  shuttered  red  house  near  by 
Swamp's  End  died  more  easily — more  hopefully 


216  ON    THE    GRADE 

— because  of  the  proximity  of  John  Fairmeadow's 
clear,  uplifted  soul.  And  I  know  that  when  the 
exhausted  little  body  was  laid  away  in  the  field 
at  the  edge  of  the  woods — I  know  that  when 
Pattie  Batch  and  old  Tom  Hitch  and  Tom 
Hitch's  little  Jinny  stood  beside  the  grave  which 
John  Fairmeadow  had  dug — I  know  that  the 
spring  sunshine  was  warm  then — I  know  that 
not  a  flower  of  that  green  place  drooped  its  head 
in  shame.  I  know,  too,  that  John  Fairmeadow 
read  the  service  prescribed — that  he  read  it  in 
certain  faith  that  its  prayers  and  promises  were 
for  such  even  as  little  Liz.  So  also  is  the  resur- 
rection of  the  dead.  It  is  sown  in  corruption  ;  it 
is  raised  in  incorruption  :  it  is  sown  in  dishonour ; 
it  is  raised  in  glory  :  it  is  sown  in  weakness  ;  it  is 
rasied  in  power. 
Amen! 

Fairmeadow  came  once  to  White  Pine — a 
God-forsaken  little  ramshackle  settlement  in 
touch  with  the  remotest  lumbering  operations 
of  the  woods.  It  was  off  the  railroad  :  it  was  no 
more  than  a  collection  of  frowzy,  out-at-elbows, 
blear-eyed  shacks  on  the  bank  of  Black  River. 
The  shacks,  of  course,  were  for  the  most  part  sa- 
loons designed  to  purvey  hilarity  to  the  lumber- 
jacks of  the  neighbourhood  and  a  scattering  of 
hardy  homesteaders.  The  Big  Scotchman,  with 
whom  Fairmeadow  presently  fell  in,  was  drunk 


ON    THE    GRADE  217 

and  shivering  with  apprehension  of  delirium 
tremens,  at  Smith's  Cafe.  The  man  was  a  home- 
steader, living  alone  on  his  grant  of  land,  a  mile 
or  more  from  the  settlement. 

"  First  of  all,"  Fairmeadow  sighed,  quite 
familiar  with  the  situation,  "  I  must  get  him 
home." 

But  how  ? 

"  I  can't  get  home,"  the  Scotchman  com- 
plained. 

"  All  right,"  said  Fairmeadow,  promptly ; 
"  then  I'll  carry  you." 

Presently — when  this  had  been  accomplished 
— the  necessity  of  keeping  the  Big  Scotchman 
where  he  had  got  him  devolved  upon  John  Fair- 
meadow.  The  "  whiskey  sickness  "  had  fallen. 
The  Big  Scotchman  was  "  took  with  the  snakes." 
There  was  a  long  wrestle  in  the  lonely  little  cabin 
in  the  woods.  John  Fairmeadow  got  the  Big 
Scotchman  down,  at  last,  and  held  him  down.  It 
was  a  variety  of  John  Fairmeadow's  preaching. 
There  was  no  choir,  to  be  sure,  the  congregation 
was  small,  and  there  was  no  report  in  the  news- 
papers ;  but  the  sermon  went  on  just  the  same. 
John  Fairmeadow  got  the  congregation  into  his 
bunk  ;  and  for  two  days  and  nights  thereafter  he 
sat  ministering — hearing,  all  the  time,  the  ravings 
of  delirium.  There  was  an  interval  of  relief,  then, 
and  during  this  John  Fairmeadow  gathered  up 
every  shred  of  the  Big  Scotchman's  clothing  and 


218  ON    THE    GRADE 

hid  it.  There  was  not  a  garment  left  in  the  cabin 
to  cover  the  man's  nakedness. 

The  Big  Scotchman  presently  wanted  whiskey. 

"  No,"  said  Fairmeadow  ;  "  you  stay  right 
here." 

The  Big  Scotchman  got  up  to  dress. 

"  My  friend,"  said  Fairmeadow,  "  there's  noth- 
ing to  wear." 

Then  the  fight  was  on  again.  It  was  a  long 
fight — merely  a  physical  thing  in  the  beginning, 
but  a  fight  of  another  kind  before  the  day  was 
done.  And  John  Fairmeadow  won.  When,  at 
last,  the  Big  Scotchman  got  up  from  his  knees, 
he  took  John  Fairmeadow's  hand,  and  said  that, 
by  God's  help,  he  would  live  better  than  he  had 
lived.  Moreover,  he  was  as  good  as  his  word. 

A  rough  lot,  perhaps,  these  lumber-jacks  ;  but 
they  were  still  sentimental,  upon  occasions,  and 
they  were  devoted  to  John  Fairmeadow.  And 
how  lustily  they  sang  John  Fairmeadow's  hymns 
in  the  bunk-houses  !  Not,  perhaps,  in  apprecia- 
tion of  the  sentiment,  but  for  the  sheer  joy  of  sing- 
ing. And  at  the  Bottle  River  camps  "  Jesus  Lover 
of  My  Soul "  engaged  them.  They  sang  it  again 
and  again  ;  and  when  they  got  up  in  the  morn- 
ing, they  said  :  "  Say,  parson,  let's  sing  her  once 
more  !  "  They  sang  it  once  more — in  the  bunk- 
house  at  dawn — and  the  boss  opened  the  door 
and  was  much  too  amazed  to  interrupt  They 


ON    THE    GRADE  219 

sang  it  again.  "  All  out !  "  cried  the  boss  ;  and 
the  boys  went  slowly  off  to  labour  in  the  woods, 
singing,  Let  me  to  Thy  bosom  fly  !  and,  Oh,  re- 
ceive my  soul  at  last ! — diverging  here  and  there, 
axes  and  saws  over  shoulder,  some  to  the  deeper 
forest,  some  making  out  upon  the  frozen  lake, 
some  pursuing  the  white  roads — all  passing  into 
the  snow  and  green  and  great  trees  and  silence 
of  the  undefiled  forest  which  John  Fairmeadow 
loved — all  singing  as  they  went,  Other  refuge 
have  I  none  ;  hangs  my  helpless  soul  on  7^hee — 
until  the  voices  were  like  sweet  and  soft-coming 
echoes  from  the  wilderness. 

Fairmeadow  was  once  taken  ill  in  the  woods. 
It  was  a  matter  of  exposure — occurring  in  cold 
weather,  after  months  of  harsh  toil,  with  a  pack 
on  his  back.  There  was  a  storm  of  snow  blow- 
ing, at  far  below  zero,  and  Fairmeadow  was 
miles  from  any  camp.  He  managed,  however, 
after  hours  of  plodding  through  the  snow,  to 
reach  the  uncut  timber,  where  he  was  somewhat 
sheltered  from  the  wind.  He  was  then  intent 
upon  the  sermon  for  the  evening ;  but  beyond 
that — even  trudging  through  these  tempered 
places — he  has  forgotten  what  occurred.  The 
lumber-jacks  of  the  Cant-hook  cutting  found  him 
at  last,  lying  in  the  snow  near  the  cook-house  ; 
and  they  carried  him  to  the  bunk-house,  and  put 
him  to  bed,  and  consulted  concerning  him. 


220  ON    THE    GRADE 

"  The  parson's  an  almighty  sick  man,"  said  one. 

Another  prescribed  :  "  Got  any  whiskey  in 
camp  ?  " 

There  was  no  whiskey — there  was  no  doctor 
within  reach — there  was  no  medicine  of  any  sort. 
And  the  parson,  whom  they  had  taken  from  the 
snow,  was  a  very  sick  man.  They  wondered 
what  could  be  done  for  him.  It  seemed  that 
nobody  knew.  There  was  nothing  to  be  done — 
nothing  but  keep  him  covered  up  and  warm. 

"  Boys,"  a  lumber-jack  proposed,  "  how's  this 
for  an  idea  ?  " 

They  listened. 

"  We  can  pray  for  the  man,"  said  he,  "  who's 
always  praying  for  us." 

They  managed  to  do  it  somehow  ;  and  when 
Fairmeadow  heard  that  the  boys  were  praying 
for  him — praying  for  him  ! — he  turned  his  face  to 
the  wall,  and  covered  up  his  head,  and  wept  like 
a  fevered  boy. 


XXIII 

WHAT:  HAPPENED  ro  TOM  HITCH 

WHAT  happened  to  Plain  Tom  Hitch, 
who  had  fallen  in  love  with  a  flower, 
was  told  to  the  new  superintendent  of 
the  Bottle  River  camps,  at  Swamp's  End,  long 
after,  of  course,  its  occurrence.  When  Rowl,  the 
sentimental  old  sealer,  observed,  with  a  twinkling 
pretense  of  indifference,  that  the  big  stranger, 
amiably  engaged  with  Pale  Peter  at  the  swing- 
shuttered  door  of  the  Red  Tiger,  was  none  other 
than  John  Fairmeadow,  the  superintendent  at- 
tended intimately  and  with  lively  interest  on  the 
extraordinary  fellow's  appearance  and  behaviour. 
Fairmeadow  turned  out,  in  the  new  superintend- 
ent's eyes,  to  be  a  big  man.  The  superintendent 
had  known,  of  course,  that  he  was  a  big  man  :  he 
must  needs  be,  indeed,  to  sanction  the  large  tales 
that  were  told  of  him  in  those  woods.  But  the 
superintendent  had  not  conceived  the  clean 
strength  of  him.  The  superintendent  had  fash- 
ioned a  hero  of  raw  and  hairy  bulk,  a  low- 
browed, big-jawed  power,  recklessly  driven  to 
good  ends,  rather  than  a  young,  rosy,  bubbling 
giant  with  a  sharp  zest  for  righteousness.  Fair- 
meadow  was  clad  like  a  lumber-jack,  boots, 

221 


222        What  HAPPENED  to  TOM  HITCH 

mackinaw  (thrown  wide  in  the  warm  wind),  and 
cloth  cap,  with  a  woodsman's  pack  waiting  at  his 
feet :  a  man  ready  for  the  trail.  The  superin- 
tendent observed  that  he  had  a  singular  habit  of 
snapping  his  teeth  in  talk — of  drawing  taut  the 
cords  of  his  neck,  of  shooting  out  his  head  in  a 
defiant  fashion,  of  glaring  from  beneath  fallen 
brows — all  as  though  he  might  be  used  to  being 
in  busy  and  difficult  opposition.  With  this,  when 
he  spread  his  feet  and  squared  his  shoulders,  he 
took  on  an  appearance  of  savage  truculence, 
which,  however,  a  gray  twinkle  and  a  wry  twitch 
of  the  lips  could  mitigate  even  when  his  aspect  of 
countenance  was  the  fiercest.  He  was  not  a  sour 
and  fearsome  prophet :  he  was  a  jolly  parson. 
His  pugnacious  exploits  (the  superintendent 
fancied)  must  be  ascribed  to  the  quest  of  effi- 
ciency in  his  profession  of  preaching  the  Gospel. 

"  John  Fairmeadow,"  observed  Rowl,  "  is  mas- 
ter in  the  house  of  his  own  soul." 

It  needed  elucidation. 

"  A  perfectly  well-meanin'  but  industrious 
conscience,"  Rowl  explained,  "  plays  the  devil 
with  many  a  good  man  :  John  Fairmeadow  is  no 
servant  of  his,  but  master.  I'm  glad  /  ain't  got 
none  t'  live  an'  quarrel  with.  I  always  pity  the 
man,"  he  added,  "  whose  conscience  wears  the 
trousers." 

John  Fairmeadow  put  his  pack  on  his  back 
and  shook  it  into  place. 


What  HAPPENED  to  TOM  HITCH       223 

"  So  long,  Jack  1  "  said  Pale  Peter. 

"  So  long,  Peter,  old  man  ! "  Fairmeadow 
heartily  responded. 

Pale  Peter  offered  his  hand  for  shaking.  For 
a  moment  John  Fairmeadow  regarded  the  white 
fingers  of  the  friendly  saloon-keeper  with  a 
twinkle  of  disdainful  amusement.  He  ignored 
the  hand  then,  the  wry  twitch  of  his  lips  express- 
ing a  sneer,  in  which,  however,  neither  malice 
nor  contempt  resided,  but  a  nauseated  pity, 
rather ;  and  all  at  once  he  looked  up,  frank  as  a 
boy,  and  laughed  in  Pale  Peter's  face,  who  was 
not  at  all  chagrined  by  this,  but  let  his  hand 
fall  with  an  assenting  and  agreeable  smile. 
Presently  thereafter  John  Fairmeadow  was  strid- 
ing down  towards  the  tote-road  to  the  Bottle 
River  camps,  which  were  now  fitting  out  for 
the  winter.  There  was  with  him,  by  this  time,  a 
close-cropped,  gray,  grave  man,  in  health  and  self- 
respect,  of  good  stature,  well  and  confidently  car- 
ried :  a  lumber-jack  or  homesteader,  it  seemed, 
whose  appearance  in  pious  company  impelled 
John  Rowl  to  a  philosophical  utterance. 

"  I  can't  make  out,"  Rowl  observed,"  jus'  how 
a  man  would  go  about  the  savin'  of  his  soul." 

The  superintendent  could  not  help  him. 

"  Anyhow,"  Rowl  declared,  "  give  a  man  a 
good  resolution  an'  a  bad  memory  an'  he  stands 
a  fair  show  o'  pullin'  through.  Plain  Tom 
Hitch  pulled  through,  with  the  help  of  John 


224       What  HAPPENED  to  TOM  HITCH 

Fairmeadow,  and  hung  to  the  dry  side  of  his 
log,  too,  until  Raw  Jack  Flack,  of  Big  Rapids, 
pushed  him  off.  It  happened  three  years  ago. 
But  the  tale  of  what  Tom  Hitch  did — and  the 
tale  of  what  John  Fairmeadow  did — was  kept 
close  until  the  trial  was  over  and  almost  for- 
gotten. 

"  It's  a  mean  poor  pastime  for  an  old  woods- 
man like  me,"  Rowl  went  on,  with  a  wry  face, 
"t'  sit  here  in  God's  clean  sunlight  an'  tell  of 
Raw  Jack  Flack  o'  Big  Rapids.  The  very  name 
tastes  ill  in  the  mouth  of  a  man :  faugh !  my 
tongue  itches.  He  was  a  big  man,  too,  an'  good 
t'  look  upon :  well-kept,  straight-backed,  pink- 
an'-white,  sober,  genial  in  the  open,  clever  as 
Satan.  In  them  days  he  kep'  a  flashy  saloon  at 
Big  Rapids,  the  county-seat — an'  kep'  more  than 
that — for  the  use  of  the  boys  o'  these  woods. 
With  a  horde  o'  pink-eyed  little  runts,  runners, 
pickpockets,  an'  tin-horn  gamblers  t'  father 
business,  he  got  rich ;  an'  bein'  rich,  with  a 
spider's  lust  for  politics,  he  growed  almighty 
powerful  in  the  county,  backed  by  the  big  fellers 
at  the  capital.  I  never  could  quite  make  out 
which  was  in  the  saddle  hereabouts,  the  devil  or 
Raw  Jack  Flack.  Almighty  God? — well,  Al- 
mighty God  had  few  acquaintances  at  Big  Rap- 
ids those  times,  an'  them  not  votin'  Jack  Flack's 
ticket.  Police,  judge,  magistrates,  mayor,  juries, 


What  HAPPENED  to  TOM  HITCH       225 

janitors,  an'  scavengers :  Raw  Jack  Flack  picked 
'em,  paid  for  'em,  an'  possessed  'em ;  an'  the 
only  law  that  was  law  in  this  county  was  the 
wink  an'  nod  of  this  same  Jack  Flack,,  He'd 
have  no  enemy  alive  in  the  county.  Not  him ! 
'Twas  quit  or  git  for  them.  Consequently,  Raw 
Jack  Flack  had  friends. 

"I've  no  will  t'  talk  about  the  late  Jack  Flack ; 
but  I  will  say,  speakin'  in  a  mild  an'  indulgent 
way  o'  the  dead,  that  the  devil  was  hard  put  to 
it  t'  keep  up  with  Jack  Flack's  inventions. 

"  '  Good  Lord,  Jack  Flack ! '  says  he ;  '  how'd 
you  come  t'  think  o'  that  ? ' 

" '  Think  o'  what  ? '  says  Jack  Flack. 

"  '  The  dirty  trick  you  just  done.  It  never  oc- 
curred t'  me.' 

" '  That's  nothin','  says  Jack  Flack.  '  Watch 
me  for  a  minute  an'  I'll  show  you  what  I  can  do.' 

"  '  Whew ! '  says  Old  Nick  ;  '  that s  a  good 
one!' 

"  '  That's  nothin','  says  Jack.  '  I  bet  I  could 
beat  that  if  I  tried.' 

" '  You  make  me  ashamed  o'  myself,'  says  OF 
Nick.  '  When  you  get  down  here  t'  look  after 
things,  Jack/  says  he,  '  I  guess  I  better  take  a 
vacation  an'  study  abroad.'  " 

Rowl  laughed  without  mirth. 

"Anyhow,"  he  resumed,  all  at  once  growing 
grave,  "Plain  Tom  Hitch  jus'  would  hunt  the 
saloons  o'  Swamp's  End  for  good  deeds  t'  do. 


226        What  HAPPENED  to  TOM  HITCH 

There  was  no  stoppin'  him  at  all ;  he'd  be  there 
by  night,  when  John  Fairmeadow  was  away 
preachin',  t'  ease  the  boys  in  the  snake-room,  an' 
t'  straighten  'em  out  on  the  floor,  an'  t'  drag  'em 
where  they  wouldn't  be  kicked  an'  trampled  on, 
an'  t'  send  the  sick  t'  the  Sisters'  Hospital  at  Big 
Rapids,  jus'  as  John  Fairmeadow  done.  An' 
one  night  at  the  Cafe  of  Egyptian  De-lights, 
when  Raw  Jack  Flack  was  at  Swamp's  End  with 
the  sheriff  o'  the  county — understand  me  ? — one 
night  Raw  Jack  Flack  an'  some  o'  the  boys  from 
the  Bottle  River  camps — the  boys  are  a  little  bit 
rough  when  in  liquor — one  night  Raw  Jack 
Flack  had  'em  flatten  out  Tom  Hitch  on  the  bar, 
pry  his  teeth  apart  with  a  cold-chisel,  an'  pour 
liquor  down  his  throat  until  poor  Tom  Hitch  was 
able  t'  sit  up  an'  help  himself.  Understand? 
Raw  Jack  made  him  drunk  against  his  will.  Tom 
Hitch  didn't  thank  the  boys  for  it :  Tom  Hitch 
thanked  Raw  Jack  Flack,  when  he  got  up,  an' 
said  that  he  seen  the  fun  o'  the  thing  now,  all  right, 
an'  that  he  felt  a  sight  better  than  he  had  for  a 
long  time.  After  that  it  was  Tom  Hitch's  own 
hand  that  tipped  the  bottle — Tom  Hitch's  hand 
that  lifted  the  glass — Tom  Hitch's  lips  that  ut- 
tered the  old  abominations — Tom  Hitch's  heart 
that  broke — Tom  Hitch's  soul  that  dropped  back 
from  the  places  of  light  to  which  it  had  attained. 
Raw  Jack  Flack  an'  the  sheriff  o'  Saw-log 
County  done  the  laughin'. 


What  HAPPENED  to  TOM  HITCH       227 

"  Four  nights  later  poor  Tom  Hitch  come  a 
little  to  his  senses  in  the  snake-room  of  the  Cafe 
of  Egyptian  De-lights.  Poor  Tom  Hitch !  they'd 
throwed  him  there  t'  get  him  out  o'  the  way, 
when  he  give  signs  o'  the  jumps.  He  wasn't 
sober  yet ;  an'  he  stumbled  all  befuddled  into  the 
bar,  where  Raw  Jack  Flack  was  electioneerin'. 

"The  boys  say  he  was  cryin'.  Butcher  Long 
o'  the  Cant-hook  crew  says  that,  so  help  him 
God  !  he  seen  tears  as  big  as  rain-drops  streamin* 
from  Plain  Tom  Hitch's  eyes. 

"  Anyhow,  Tom  Hitch  said  : 

"  '  Jack  Flack,  you  robbed  me ! ' 

"  '  You  lyin'  hound  ! '  says  Flack. 

"  '  What  you  want  t'  go  an'  rob  me  for  ? '  says 
Tom  Hitch.  '  It  didn't  do  you  no  good.' 

"Flack  caught  him  by  the  beard,  then,  an' 
struck  him  in  the  face.  '  Don't  you  say  that 
about  me,  you  pup  ! '  says  he. 

" '  Man,'  poor  Tom  Hitch  whimpered,  '  you 
robbed  me  of  all  I  ever  had  ! ' 

"The  boys  crowded  near  t'  see  what  Jack 
Flack  would  do.  They  say  that  fifty  men — ay, 
a  full  fifty — heard  him  pass  the  threat.  An'  the 
sheriff  o'  Saw-log  County  was  one  ;  an'  later,  the 
sheriff  remembered. 

" '  Get  t'  perdition  out  o'  this  county ! '  says 
Flack.  '  You  hear  me  f  ' 

"  '  I  got  a  nice  little  homestead  here,'  says 
Tom  Hitch. 


228       What  HAPPENED  to  TOM  HITCH 

"  Thank  God,  he  didn't  say  that  he'd  a  sweet 
little  daughter,  too  1 

"  '  It  don't  make  no  difference  t'  me  what  you 
got/  says  Jack  Flack.  '  You'll  be  out  o'  my 
county  in  three  days,  you  lyin'-mouthed  dog,  or 
I'll  kill  you  on  sight  1 ' 

"  Nobody  knowed  whether  he  meant  it  or  not. 
Not  me  :  I  wasn't  there.  But  the  sheriff  o'  Saw- 
log  County  was  there — an'  the  sheriff  heard  what 
was  said — an'  the  sheriff  couldn't  deny  it  when 
he  come  t'  the  point-blank  question. 

"  It  begun  t'  rain  that  night.  It  was  rainin' 
then — the  first  big  black  drops  o'  that  three- 
days'  gale.  Plain  Tom  Hitch  went  home  in  the 
rain.  A  dark  November  night — black  an'  wet  in 
the  woods — with  a  storm  o'  cold  wind  comin'  down 
from  the  nor' west.  Jinny  met  him — took  him 
by  the  hand  at  the  cross-trails  by  Swamp's  End 
— an'  led  him  home  by  the  hand  like  a  child. 
Little  Jinny  o'  the  staunch  an'  tender  heart,  God 
bless  her !  An'  God  will :  for  God  knows,  well 
enough,  her  sorrows  of  that  night — her  waiting 
an'  her  fear.  Three  days  later — in  the  sweep 
an'  pour  o'  rain — a  flooded,  wind-blown  world — 
I  come  f  Swamp's  End  from  the  Bottle  River 
camps.  Lord !  what  a  night  I  mind  it  well : 
the  wind — the  rain — the  black  forest — the  soggy 
trail  from  Swamp's  End  t'  Plain  Tom  Hitch's  lit- 
tle homestead  in  the  woods. 


What  HAPPENED  to  TOM  HITCH      229 

"  Tom  Hitch  wouldn't  lift  his  face  from  his 
hands.  '  Rowl,'  he  sobbed,  in  his  hand,  '  Raw 
Jack  Flack  went  an'  robbed  me  of  my  soul.' 

"  '  No  such  nonsense  ! '  says  I. 

"  '  He  robbed  me — he  robbed  me  of  my 
soul.' 

"'No  such  nonsense  1 '  says  I.  'Raw  Jack 
Flack  ain't  collectin'  souls.' 

"  '  I  had  something  precious  in  my  heart,' 
says  Tom  Hitch ;  '  an'  Jack  Flack  took  it  away 
from  me.' 

"  '  Don't  you  be  a  cry-baby  no  more,'  says  I. 

" '  It  come  t'  me  after  fifty  years  o'  sinful  life,' 
says  he.  '  It  was  real — it  was  real — t'  me/ 

" '  Ah,  father,'  says  little  Jinny,  '  you're  jus'  as 
good  as  ever ! ' 

" '  Little  robin  ! '  says  Tom  Hitch,  lookin'  up. 
'  The  Lord's  always  been  near  you.  You  don't 
know  what  it  means  t'  have  Him  turn  His  face 
away.' 

"  '  No,  no  ! '  says  Jinny.  '  He'd  never  turn  His 
face  away — from  you.' 

"  '  He's  no  friend  o'  mine  no  more.' 

"  '  Let  Him  do  what  He  likes,'  says  Jinny,  as 
she  hugged  Tom  Hitch  close  to  her  heart.  '  We 
won't  care.  Father — father — you're  just  as  dear 
as  ever — t'  me  !  ' 

"  By  an*  by  Tom  Hitch  stopped  cry  in'  an' 
got  up.  He  didn't  say  nothin'  for  a  long 
time :  he  jus'  walked  up  an'  down — thinkin'  al- 


230       What  HAPPENED  to  TOM  HITCH 

mighty  hard — with  as  gray  an'  harsh  a  cast  o' 
face  as  ever  I  saw. 

"  It  was  gettin'  late,  then. 

"  '  Rowl,'  says  he,  '  I  guess  I  might  as  well  go 
out  t'  town.' 

"  '  Hark  t'  the  rain ! '  says  Jinny. 

"There  was  a  great  noise  o'  wind  an'  rain 
in  the  world.  '  I  wouldn't,'  says  I ;  '  not  t'- 
night.' 

"  '  Little  robin,'  says  he,  pattin'  Jinny's  head, 
'  I'll  drink  nothin'  t'-night.' 

"  'I'm  not  afraid,'  says  she. 

"  '  I  got  a  little  business  in  town,  Rowl,'  says 
he.  'You'll  stay  with  Jinny,  will  you  not? — 'til 
I  get  back.  It's  jus'  a  little  business  that's  heavy 
on  my  conscience ;  an'  I  guess  I  might  jus'  as 
well  go  out  an'  do  it.  It  won't  take  long,  an'  it 
won't  be  hard  ;  an'  after  I  get  it  done  I'll  be 
easier  in  my  mind.' 

"  By  this  time  he  had  on  his  mackinaw  an'  cap 
an'  big  boots. 

"  He  turned  at  the  door ;  an'  for  a  little  bit 
he  stood  scratchin'  his  beard — thinkin'  almighty 
hard. 

"  '  Have  you  forgot  something  ? '  says  Jinny. 

"  Tom  Hitch  looked  at  the  gun  on  the  wall. 
'  Oh,  no,  I  guess  not,'  says  he.  He  let  his  eyes 
fall  away  from  the  gun ;  an'  he  sighed  twice. 
'  No,  little  robin,'  says  he.  '  I  guess  I  ain't  forgot 
nothin'.'  He  stared  at  his  hands,  then — turned 


What  HAPPENED  to  TOM  HITCH       231 

'em  back  an'  pa'm,  an'  worked  the  fingers,  an' 
looked  at  'em  for  a  long  time.  '  I  guess,'  says 
he,  '  I  got  everything  I  need.' 

"  'Good  luck,  father  I'  said  Jinny,  when  she'd 
kissed  him. 

"  '  Little  robin ! '  says  he. 

"  I  might  have  known — what  that  errand  was. 
I  ought  to  have  known.  And  I  might  have  kept 
Tom  Hitch  indoors  that  night.  I  wish  I  had. 
But  I  was  a  fool ;  and  I  let  him  go  without  so 
much  as  a  suspicion  of  the  business  the  man  had 
in  hand.  I  wish  I  hadn't — I  wish  I  hadn't ! " 


XXIV 
FAIR.MEADOWS  JUSTICE 

"  TT  US'  before  Plain  Tom  Hitch  got  back  from 
the  little  business  in  town,"  Rowl  went  on, 
*J  "  John  Fairmeadow  came  in  from  the  Lost 
Chance  camps  on  Ragged  Stream,  where  the 
news  of  Tom  Hitch  had  gone.  It's  a  matter  of 
thirty  mile  from  the  Lost  Chance  camps  t* 
Swamp's  End  :  John  Fairmeadow  had  come  it 
that  day,  God  knows  how  I  by.  the  short  cut 
through  Cedar  Long  Swamp.  A  bad  day  for  a 
man  t'  be  abroad  in  the  swamps  :  a  worse  night 
t'  foot  the  trail  from  Dead  Man's  Ferry.  There 
was  now  a  rush  of  rain  against  the  window- 
panes  ;  there  was  now  the  patter  of  hail  on  the 
roof.  And  the  big  wind  from  the  nor' west  was 
threshing  the  forest  an'  cryin'  at  the^door.  I 
caught  ear,  once,  of  a  rumble  of  thunder :  I  was 
troubled  by  it — a  growl  an'  bark  of  unseasonable 
thunder.  John  Fairmeadow  was  wet  t'  the  skin  : 
he  bled  from  the  wounds  o'  the  muskegs  ;  he 
was  splashed  t'  the  eyes  with  the  black  mud  an' 
dead  leaves  o'  the  last  trail. 

"  Plain  Tom  Hitch  broke  in — weak  an'  white 
an'  drippin' — with  Raw  Jack  Flack's  pistol  in  his 
hand.  John  Fairmeadow  jumped  from  his  chair, 
little  Jinny  cried  out,  a  draught  o'  wet  wind 

232 


FAIRMEADOWS  JUSTICE       253 

flared  the  lamps,  the  door  was  slammed,  an' 
there  all  of  a  sudden  stood  Plain  Tom  Hitch, 
blinkin'  in  the  light,  an'  lurched  back  against  the 
door,  a  hand  on  the  bolt. 

"  '  Well,'  says  he,  '  I  done  it ! ' 

"  No  need  t'  tell  what  he'd  done  :  'twas  writ 
plain  enough  upon  him. 

"  '  I  killed  him,'  says  he,  gone  hoarse  an'  breath- 
less. '  I  killed  him  with  his  own  gun.' 

"  '  Who  seen  you  ? '  says  I. 

" '  He  was  alone  in  the  street,'  says  he.  '  I 
waited  ;  an'  I  slew  him — there.  I — I — had  t' 
kill  him.' 

"  '  God  forgive  you  ! '  says  John  Fairmeadow. 

"  Little  Jinny  ran  straight  t'  Tom  Hitch  ;  an' 
she  put  her  arms  around  his  neck,  an*  she  cried 
an'  cried  on  his  breast. 

"  '  Sheriff's  comin','  says  Tom  Hitch.  '  They 
seen  me — run  away  from — what  I  done.' 

"  '  You  better  take  t'  the  woods,  Tom/  says  I. 
'  Quick,  man  !  I'll  go  with  you.' 

"  Jinny  hugged  him  closer. 

" '  No,'  says  he ;  '  none  o'  that  for  me,  Rowl. 
I  killed  him.  I  slew  him  in  the  street.  I  meant  t' 
kill  him.  I  wanted  t'  kill  him ;  an' — I  want  t'  pay.' 

"'Take  t'  the  woods,'  says  I;  'they  won't 
give  you  a  show  if  they  get  you.' 

"  '  I  don't  want  no  show,'  says  he.  '  I  want  t' 
pay.' » 

Rowl  paused. 


234       FAIRMEADOWS  JUSTICE 

"  I  remember,  once,"  said  the  sealer,  presently, 
"  sittin'  with  Jinny  an'  Plain  Tom  Hitch  on  Tom 
Hitch's  porch — a  summer's  evenin',  it  was.  An' 
there  came  a  low  whistle  from  the  trail.  It  was 
Jimmie  the  Gentleman,  one  o'  Pale  Peter's  bar- 
tenders, callin'  little  Jinny. 

" '  It's  Jimmie,'  says  little  Jinny.  '  That's 
Jimmie's  call — for  me  ! ' 

"  '  For  you,  Jinny  ?  '  says  Tom  Hitch.  '  Is  he 
callin'  you,  my  dear  ?  ' 

"  '  Why,  yes,  father  !  Of  course.  That's  Jim- 
mie callin'  me.' 

"  '  I  wouldn't  go  far,  my  dear,'  says  Tom 
Hitch,  '  with  Jimmie  the  Gentleman.' 

"  '  Oh,  no  ! ' 

"  '  You  see/  says  Tom  Hitch,  '  you  might  get 
lost.  You  might  get  lost,  somehow,  an'  have  t' 
wander,  for  a  long,  long  time,  if  you  was  t'  go  so 
very  far  away — with  Jimmie.' 

"  Little  Jinny  laughed  then,  an'  kissed  Tom 
Hitch  on  the  tip  o'  the  nose.  '  Jimmie/  says  she, 
'  would  bring  me  back.' 

"  '  He  mightn't  be  able/  says  Plain  Tom  Hitch. 

"  '  Then/  says  she,  'you'd  find  me.' 

"  'I'd  try  with  all  my  might/  says  he  ;  '  but 
still  I  mightn't  be  able.' 

"  '  Pooh  ! '  says  she, 

"  *  There's  no  man/  says  he,  '  that's  sure  of  the 
way — in  the  night.' 

"  '  Pooh  ! '  says  she. 


FAIRMEADOWS  JUSTICE       235 

"  '  God  knows  I'd  try  ! '  says  he.  '  I'm  wantin' 
t'  live  for  that — if  need  comes.' 

"  '  Pooh  1 '  says  she.  '  But  since  you're  fright- 
ened,' says  she,  '  I'll  go  but  t'  the  trail.  I'm 
sure,'  says  she,  '  that  thafs  not  far  from  home.' 

"'No,'  says  he;  'there's  a  trail  near  every 
home.' 

"Jimmie  whistled. 

"  '  Hark  ! '  says  Jinny.  '  That's  Jimmie  again 
— callin  me ! ' 

" '  It's  Jimmie,'  says  Plain  Tom  Hitch,  '  callin' 
you  t'  the  Big  River  Trail.' 

"  '  Father,'  says  Jinny,  '  I'll  go  but  t'  the  big 
stump  at  the  edge  o'  the  woods.' 

"  '  Do,  my  dear  ! '  says  he.  '  That's  kind  !  An' 
the  moon's  showin'  over  the  trees  already.  An' 
the  little  stars  is  out.  So  you'll  not  be  all  alone 
with  Jimmie,  after  all.  An'  I'll  be  able  t'  see  you 
from  here,  too.  I'll  like  it,'  says  he,  '  t'  sit  here 
on  the  porch,  in  the  dusk  with  ol'  John  Rowl,  an' 
watch  my  little  girl  employed  with  courtin'  at 
the  edge  o'  the  woods.  Fly  away ! '  says  he. 
'  Little  robin  I  Little  robin  !  It's  spring  time  ( 
Little  robin,  fly  away  ! ' 

"  Little  Jinny  fluttered  off  t1  the  edge  o'  the 
woods. 

"  An'  now,"  the  sealer  resumed,  "  when  I 
thought  o'  Jimmie  the  Gentleman  an'  little  Jinny, 
I  knew  what  t'  say  t'  Plain  Tom  Hitch,  when  he'd 


236       FAIRMEADOW'S  JUSTICE 

killed  Jack  Flack  an'  wouldn't  take  t'  the  woods 
t'  save  his  life. 

"  '  With  you  out  o'  the  way,  Tom  Hitch/  says 
I,  '  'twill  be  easy  pickin'  for  Jimmie  the  Gentle- 
man.' 

"Jinny  pulled  him  down  an'  kissed  him. 

"  '  I  guess  I  better  live,  Rowl,'  says  he,  after  a 
bit,  'jus'  as  long  as  I  can.  I'll  go.' 

"  Jinny  kep'  on  kissin'  his  cheek. 

"  '  Little  robin  ! '  says  Tom  Hitch.  '  Poor  little 
robin ! ' 

"  '  Give  me  that  gun,'  says  John  Fairmeadow. 
'There's  no  clean  justice  here.  My  law's  as 
good  as  theirs.  I'll  pass  judgment  in  this  case. 
Give  me  that  gun.  .  .  .  One  chamber  empty. 
Good.  The  new  circumstances  call  for  two 
shots.  The  thing  will  adjust  itself.  .  .  .  Are 
there  lanterns  coming  up  the  trail?  Not  yet? 
Thank  God,  there's  time  !  .  .  .  A  wet  night. 
The  trail's  flooded.  There'd  be  no  trace  of  blood 
in  that  event.  God  Almighty's  in  this  thing. 
No  man  could  swear  to  a  shot  on  a  night  like  this. 
The  gun  ?  It  can  be  found  in  the  mud  to-mor- 
row. Rowl  must  attend  to  that.  .  .  .  Are 
there  lanterns  on  the  trail  ?  Not  yet  ?  .  .  . 
Blood  on  the  door-sill.  Blood-drips  on  the  floor. 
These  will  occur  without  arrangement.  ,  .  . 
Jinny,  child — bandages  an*  water !  And  keep 
away  from  the  door.  .  .  .  Are  there  lights 
on  the  trail  ?  Not  yet  ?  God  Almighty's  surely 


FA1RMEADOWS  JUSTICE       237 

in  this  thing.  .  .  .  And  he  said  he'd  kill  him 
on  sight.  They  heard  him.  Fifty  men  heard 
him.  .  .  .  The  wind's  in  the  northwest. 
Good !  That  brings  the  lee  to  the  back  of  the 
cabin.  The  lamp  will  serve.  It  won't  flicker. 
Jinny,  child,  keep  away  from  the  door.  Rowl, 
you'll  have  to  hold  the  lamp.  .  .  .  Stand  up, 
Tom  Hitch.  Follow  me.' 

11  We  took  Tom  Hitch  outside. 

"  '  I  can  make  a  clean  job  of  it  at  three  paces, 
I  suppose,'  says  John  Fairmeadow.  '  That's  not 
too  near  for  safety.' 

"  I  held  the  lamp  high. 

" '  What  you  goin'  t'  do  ? '  says  Tom  Hitch. 

"  Fairmeadow  paced  off  three  paces. 

"'What  you  goin'  t'  do  with  me?'  says  Tom 
Hitch. 

"'Stand  back  against  the  cabin,'  says  Fair- 
meadow.  '  There.  Throw  off  your  coat.  That 
'11  do.  Straighten  up  now.  Let  your  arms  fall. 
So.  Don't  move.  Steady  with  that  lamp, 
Rowl.' 

"  I  steadied  the  lamp. 

" '  What  you  goin'  t'  do  ?'  Tom  Hitch  whim- 
pered. 

'"Stand  still,  ye  fool!' 

" '  For  God's  sake,  Jack,  don't  shoot ! ' 

"  '  John,'  says  I,  '  what  fool's  work  is  this  ? ' 

"  Fairmeadow  lowered  Jack  Flack's  gun. 
4  Rowl,'  says  he,  '  there's  only  one  way  to  save 


238       FAIRMEADOW'S  JUSTICE 

this  man.  Just  one,  Rowl — just  one.  And  he'll 
hang  if  we're  not  quick  about  it.  There's  only 
one  way,  I  tell  you ;  and  that's  by  manufactur- 
ing evidence  of  self-defense.  The  only  way  to 
manufacture  evidence  of  self-defense  is  by  hurt- 
ing Tom  Hitch.  I  don't  propose  to  stand  by 
and  see  this  man  hanged.  Consequently  I  pro- 
pose to  hurt  him.  A  gun  ?  It's  a  risk.  But  the 
thing  has  to  be  done  with  a  gun.  .  .  .  You 
know  those  men  back  there.  Will  they  give 
Tom  Hitch  a  show  ?  Not  they  !  Take  to  the 
woods?  Nonsense!  He'd  never  get  out  alive. 
But  there  isn't  a  jury  in  this  county  would  con- 
vict the  devil  himself  of  murder  in  a  fair  fight. 
.  .  .  I  know  what  I'm  doing.  This  is  no  new 
business  for  me.  I've — I've — handled  these 
things  before/ 

" '  Tom,'  says  I,  '  stand  back  against  the 
cabin.' 

"  Tom  Hitch  braced  himself  and  looked  John 
Fairmeadow  in  the  eye. 

" '  Draw  your  shirt  tight,  Tom,'  says  Fair- 
meadow.  '  I  want  the  outline  of  your  right 
shoulder.' 

"  I  held  the  lamp  close. 

"  '  Ready,'  says  Tom  Hitch. 

"  Fairmeadow  hit  him  in  the  right  shoulder — 
a  clean  puncture  above  the  lung,  as  it  turned  out 
when  we  got  the  doctor  from  Big  Rapids — an' 
Plain  Tom  Hitch  crumpled  up  without  a  sound. 


"I  want  Tom  Hitch,  says  the  Sheriff" 


FAIRMEADOW'S  JUSTICE       259 

"  '  Quick  with  him  ! '  says  I.  '  There's  lan- 
terns on  the  trail  1 ' 

"  Fairmeadovv  was  fumblin'  under  Tom  Hitch's 
shirt.  '  Just  a  minute,  Rowl,'  says  he.  '  Thank 
God  !  I  got  him  clean !  ' 

"  '  God's  sake,  man  ! '  says  I.  I  put  the  lamp 
in  the  cabin.  'Make  haste;  they're  comin'  up 
the  hill.' 

"  He  jumped  up.  '  There's  enough  evidence 
of  self-defense  in  that  wound,'  says  he,  '  to  per- 
suade any  jury  they  can  pick.' 

" '  Take  him  by  the  legs,'  says  I.  '  Make 
haste.' 

"  '  All  right,  Rowl,'  says  he  ;  'no  hurry.' 

"  We  had  Tom  Hitch  laid  out  an'  stripped  t' 
the  waist — an'  the  hole  stopped  up — before  the 
sheriff  o'  Saw-log  County  hammered  on  the 
door. 

"  Fairmeadow  faced  him. 

" '  Well,'  says  the  sheriff,  '  I  want  Tom  Hitch.' 

" '  Keep  that  crowd  out,'  says  John  Fair- 
meadow. 

"The  sheriff  shut  the  door  on  the  boys. 
4  Now,'  says  he,  '  where's  my  man  ? ' 

"  '  Not  so  loud  ! '  says  Fairmeadow. 

"  '  Be  damned  t'  you,  parson  ! '  says  the  sheriff. 
'  This  ain't  no  Sunday-school  picnic.  I  want  the 
man  that  killed  Jack  Flack.' 

"  '  He's  hurt.' 

"  The   sheriff  looked   at  the   blood  on   Tom 


240        FA1RMEADOWS,  JUSTICE 

Hitch's  breast.  He  tiptoed  close.  '  Who  done 
that  ?  '  says  he. 

"  '  The  man  who  dealt  that  wound,'  says  John 
Fairmeadow,  '  will  answer  for  the  act  in  due  time 
to  Almighty  God.' 

" '  The  man's  dead  who  dealt  it,'  says  the 
sheriff. 

"  John  Fairmeadow  answered  nothin'. 

"'Good-night,'  says  the  sheriff.  'You'll  re- 
member that  Tom  Hitch  is  my  man.' 

"  We  turned  in  once  more,"  John  Rowl  con- 
cluded, "  t'  patch  up  Plain  Tom  Hitch." 

"  Did  they  convict  Tom  Hitch  ?  "  the  superin- 
tendent asked. 

"  No,"  Rowl  drawled  ;  "  they  didn't  convict 
him.  They  wanted  to  ;  but  you  see,"  he  added, 
"  the  evidence  o'  self-defense  was  almighty  plain 
an'  convincin'." 

"  And  Tom  Hitch  ?  "  said  the  superintendent. 

"  It  wouldn't  be  too  much  t'  say,"  he  replied, 
"  that  Almighty  God  blesses  these  woods  daily 
by  means  of  His  friend  Tom  Hitch." 

"  And  the  little  robin  ?  " 

"  Gentleman  Jimmie  didn't  get  her,  thank 
God ! "  Rowl  burst  out.  "  Not  with  Plain  Tom 
Hitch  on  the  job  ! " 


XXV 

THE   TRIAL    KISS 

IN  these  busy  days — and  busy  days  they 
were,  indeed — John  Fairmeadow's  thoughts 
occasionally  ran  with  strange  perversity — 
and  with  aggravatingly  increasing  frequency 
— to  little  Pattie  Batch  of  Swamp's  End  and  to 
her  extraordinary  quest  for  a  suitable  father  for 
the  baby.  Pattie  Batch  must  be  looked  after,  of 
course :  Pattie  Batch  must  have  the  most  per- 
spicacious guardianship  in  the  world  in  this 
respect — she  must  have  the  most  profoundly 
wise  advice — and  the  interests  of  the  baby,  to 
be  sure,  must  properly  be  regarded.  John  Fair- 
meadow  might  have  picked  a  father  for  the 
baby  from  the  boys  of  Bottle  River,  he  fancied, 
with  whom  the  baby  would  have  been  quite 
content,  captious  as  the  baby  now  seemed  to 
have  become  in  respect  to  the  company  he  kept. 
There  were  some  fine  fellows  on  Bottle  River. 
There  were  young  fellows  from  the  East — big, 
hearty  young  fellows,  merry,  efficient  and  self- 
respecting — any  one  of  whom  might  have 
sufficed  to  guarantee  a  reasonably  secure  future 
for  the  baby ;  and  the  baby,  whose  predilection 
for  lumber-jacks  was  well  known,  would  have 

241 


242  THE    TRIAL    KISS 

been  no  doubt  eminently  satisfied.  But  a  re- 
lationship of  this  sort  implied  a  relationship  of 
quite  another  sort;  and  it  was  with  the  relation- 
ship of  the  second  description  that  John  Fair- 
meadow  was  chiefly  concerned.  When  it  came 
to  choosing  a  Mr.  Pattie  Batch  from  the  boys  of 
Bottle  River — when  it  came  to  choosing  a  Mr. 
Pattie  Batch  from  the  boys  of  the  Cant-hook  and 
the  Yellow  Tail — when  it  came  to  choosing  a  Mr. 
Pattie  Batch  from  the  boys  of  Swamp's  End  and 
Elegant  Corners — the  good  minister  was  alto- 
gether at  a  loss.  There  was  only  one  young 
fellow,  indeed,  of  them  all,  from  Swamp's  End  to 
Lost  Chance,  whom  John  Fairmeadow  could 
with  any  degree  of  equanimity  consider ;  and 
when  it  came  bluntly  to  the  consideration  of  that 
individual,  John  Fairmeadow  could  only  sigh 
and  turn  from  these  romantic  musings  to  the 
grave  problems  of  his  ministry  at  Swamp's  End. 

"Thou  fool  1 "  he  was  used  to  saying. 

It  may  be  that  having  looked  back  upon  the 
career  of  this  particular  candidate  he  lay  awake 
under  his  blanket  in  the  Bottle  River  stables  :  it 
may  be  that  he  suffered  such  pangs  as  remorse 
may  excite  to  trouble  a  man ;  but  when  he 
chanced  to  encounter  little  Pattie  Batch  on  the 
trails  there  was  no  shadow  of  melancholy  upon 
him. 

"  Hello,  Pattie  Batch  ! "  says  he,  with  a  broad, 
rosy  grin. 


THE    TRIAL    KISS  243 

"  Hello,  there,  John  Fairmeadow  1 " 

"  Found  that  father  yet?  " 

"  Nope." 

"  Looked  'em  all  over?" 

"  Nope." 

"  Got  your  eye  on  anybody  in  particular?  " 

"  Nope." 

"  Near  the  end  of  the  list  ?  " 

"  Nope." 

"  Anyhow,"  says  Fairmeadow,  chagrined,  "  if 
you're  not  perfectly  suited  when  you  do  get  to 
the  end  of  the  list,  be  sure  to  begin  all  over 
again ;  and  don't  you  forget,  young  woman,  that 
I'm  at  the  head  of  that  list,  and  the  very  first 
young  man  to  come  up  for  reconsideration. 
You're  going  to  give  me  another  chance,  aren't 
you?" 

"  Nope." 

"  What ! " 

"  Nope." 

"  Crossed  me  off  ?  " 

"  Nope.     Yep — I  mean." 

"  Well,  well ! "  cries  John  Fairmeadow.  "That's 
flat  enough,  I'm  sure  1  And  now,  young  woman," 
says  he,  in  a  fine  pretense  of  indignation  and 
despair,  "  will  you  be  good  enough  to  tell  me 
what  a  love-lorn  young  man  like  me  is  to 
do  f  " 

Pattie  Batch  found  this  banter  delicious ;  and 
the  more  John  Fairmeadow  indulged  in  it,  the 


244  THE    TRIAL    KISS 

more  she  chuckled  and  the  more  bewitchingly 
she  grinned. 

There  was  a  large  earnestness  beneath  this 
jesting  guise.  John  Fairmeadow  was  persuaded, 
in  his  big,  tender  heart,  that  the  suitable  young 
fellow  he  had  in  mind  would  not  only  devote 
himself  to  the  welfare  of  Pattie  Batch's  remark- 
able baby,  but  would  with  great  love,  perfect  and 
abounding,  chastened  in  adversity,  cherish  little 
Pattie  Batch  herself,  would  Pattie  Batch  but  al- 
low it ;  but  there  was  at  all  times  present  with 
him  in  his  melancholy  brooding  this  prohibition : 
that  the  young  fellow  had  himself  in  other  days 
created  the  problem  of  his  own  unworthiness. 
Fanciful  ?  Perhaps :  John  Fairmeadow's  young 
man  had  been  save  in  one  respect  not  altogether 
unworthy  in  his  ways  ;  and  it  may  be  that  in  the 
uplifting  labour  of  these  days  he  had  won  back 
from  the  past  all  the  rights  of  honour.  As  for 
Pattie  Batch,  in  these  jesting  times,  the  conscien- 
tious little  thing  was  sorely  troubled,  indeed  ;  and 
many  a  night — many  a  night  when  the  rain  was 
on  the  roof  and  the  black  wind  came  howling 
from  the  forest — she  cried  herself  to  sleep.  She 
could  discover  no  father  for  the  baby.  There 
was  not  a  suitable  father  to  be  had  in  Swamp's 
End  ;  nor  was  there  a  promising  candidate  at 
Elegant  Corners — nor  in  all  that  wide  section, 
even  to  the  Big  River  and  the  northernmost  lim- 


THE    TRIAL    KISS  245 

its  of  the  Logosh  Reservation.  That  is  to  say, 
there  was  only  one  ;  but  that  one  was  out  of  the 
question — quite  out  of  the  question — and  must 
be  dismissed  from  mind,  at  once  and  forever, 
however  much  weeping  might  be  required  to  ac- 
complish the  result.  As  a  father  for  the  baby,  of 
course,  the  young  man  in  question  was  perfect  in 
every  respect ;  but  the  foster-fatherhood  of  the 
baby,  as  Pattie  Batch  very  well  knew,  implied  a 
relationship  which  must  not — must  not — MUST 
not  be  permitted  to  encumber  the  young  man's 
life  with  a  silly,  worthless,  ill-born,  ill-bred,  dull, 
poverty-stricken,  perfectly  ugly  bit  of  baggage 
like  Pattie  Batch,  who  never  had  been  any  good, 
never  could  be  any  good,  and  never  would  be 
any  good,  even  to  the  baby,  bless  his  little  heart ! 

"  No,  sir  1 "  says  Pattie  Batch,  to  the  baby,  who 
cared  not  a  snap.  "  By  ginger,  it  wouldn't  do  !  " 

With  this  the  baby  indifferently  agreed. 

"It  wouldn't  do,  at  all!"  poor  little  Pattie 
Batch  repeated,  quite  resolved  that,  at  all  hazard 
to  herself,  and  at  all  hazard  even  to  the  baby, 
the  glorious  young  man  must  be  protected 
against  himself. 

"  Yes,  sir,  by  ginger ! "  declared  this  heroic  lit- 
tle person,  between  sobs. 

At  this  crisis,  Jimmie  the  Gentleman,  a  bar- 
tender at  Pale  Peter's  Red  Elephant,  came 
a-courting.  What  was  in  his  mind,  Heaven 
knows  !  I  should  not  like  to  enter  and  discover. 


246  THE    TRIAL    KISS 

At  any  rate,  he  was  of  a  dashing  way — a  curly- 
headed,  blue-eyed,  be-jewelled  young  sprig  of 
the  near  East,  devoted  to  fashion  (as  it  was  to  be 
found  at  Big  Rapids),  and  possessing  a  twinkle,  a 
laugh,  a  saucy  charm,  a  bold  arm  and  the  con- 
science of  a  lively  pirate.  Jimmie  the  Gentleman 
came  up  the  trail  from  Swamp's  End  of  a  soft 
June  night.  It  was  not  his  first  appearance  at 
Pattie  Batch's  cabin  at  the  edge  of  the  woods. 
There  had  been  others — in  John  Fairmeadow's 
absence  from  Swamp's  End,  of  course.  And 
there  had  previously  been  certain  flirtatious  pas- 
sages in  the  streets  of  town,  of  which  Pattie 
Batch,  ingenuous  little  one  !  being  then  on  the 
lookout  for  a  father  for  the  baby,  was  in  duty 
bound  to  take  notice,  since,  as  she  was  quite  well 
aware,  affairs  of  the  heart  commonly  began  in 
that  way,  proceeding  from  these  small  begin- 
nings to  the  great  event  desired.  It  had  for 
some  time  been  evident  that  Jimmie  the  Gentle- 
man was  in  love.  There  was  no  question  about 
it,  at  all.  The  Gentleman's  ardent  blue  eyes — 
his  deferential  politeness — his  soft  voice — his  swift 
and  tender  little  touches  in  the  dusk — his  signifi- 
cant phrases  at  parting — could  mean  but  one 
thing ;  and  that  thing,  Pattie  Batch  was  quite 
sure,  signified,  in  the  issue  of  it,  the  employment 
of  a  parson.  Pattie  Batch  had  come  imminently 
face  to  face,  it  seemed,  with  a  declaration  and  a 
proposal ;  and  she  had  already  determined 


THE    TRIAL    KISS  247 

— being  a  precise  and  orderly  little  person 
— her  attitude  in  respect  to  the  impending 
situation. 

June  dusk  fell. 

"  Gimme  a  kiss  !  "  Jimmie  whispered. 

Pattie  deliberated. 

"Aw,  come  on!  "Jimmie  pleaded.  "Gimme 
a  kiss,  won't  you?" 

It  was  a  tender  night :  it  was  soft  and 
still  and  sweet-smelling  at  the  edge  of  the 
great  woods ;  and  far  above  the  little  clear- 
ing the  little  stars  shone  clear,  making  the 
best  of  their  opportunity  to  flash  their  serene 
messages  to  the  world  of  hearts  before  the 
opulent  moon  should  rise  to  dim  their 
teaching. 

"  Just  one ! "  Jimmie  the  Gentleman  be- 
sought. 

They  were  now  at  the  trail  to  town.  "  Well," 
Pattie  Batch  drawled,  in  doubt,  "  I — I — 
been " 

Jimmie  slipped  an  arm  around  her. 

"  I — I — I  been  thinkin',"  Pattie  began,  shyly, 
sure  now  that  the  great  moment  had  indeed  ar- 
rived, "  a  little  bit  about " 

"  Come  on  ! " 

"  I  been  thinkin'  a  little  bit,"  Pattie  went  on, 
quite  steadily,  now,  "  about  gettin'  married." 

Jimmie  stepped  away.  "  Have  you  ? "  said  he, 
blankly. 


248  THE    TRIAL    KISS 

"  Maybe,"  Pattie  continued,  "  you  better  had 
kiss  me." 

The  Gentleman  came  closer. 

"I'll  try  it,"  said  little  Pattie,  resolutely,  "an' 
see  how  I  like  it." 

Jimmie  kissed  her  in  his  accustomed  way. 

"  I  don't  like  it  1 "  Pattie  cried,  freeing  herself, 
in  a  passion  of  humiliation  and  terror.  "  I  don't 
like  it !  Oh,  I  don't  like  it !  " 

"  What's  the  matter  with  you  ?  "  Jimmie  de- 
manded. 

"  I  d-d-don't  know,"  Pattie  sobbed. 

"Want  another?" 

"N-no!" 

"  Might  as  well  have  another." 

"  I— I— I'm  awful  th-th-thorry,  Jimmie,"  Pattie 
wept ;  "  but  I — I— I  d-d-don't  think  you' II  d-d-do  !  " 

The  Gentleman  laughed  a  little. 

"  You  won't  mind,  will  you?  "  Pattie  asked,  in 
a  flush  of  compassion. 

"  Don't  you  worry  about  me"  said  the  Gentle- 
man. 

Little  Pattie  whispered  softly— earnestly— 

"  I'm  so  glad  you  don't  mind  !  " 

The  moon  had  risen.  Jimmie  the  Gentleman 
looked  deep  into  Pattie  Batch's  glistening  and 
compassionate  gray  eyes.  What  was  in  his 
mind,  God  knows  !  What  he  said — and  this  in 
a  whisper  not  meant  for  the  ears  of  Pattie  Batch 
— was : 


THE    TRIAL    KISS  249 

"  No  ;  you  don't  want  me.  I — I — wouldn't 
do!" 

"  Good-night,  Jimmie  1 " 

"  Good-bye." 

Jimmie  the  Gentleman  paused  in  the  shadows 
of  the  trail  beyond  Gray  Billy  Batch's  clearing. 
He  was  still  in  a  daze  ;  but  presently  he  laughed 
and  went  his  way  towards  the  lights  of  Swamp's 
End,  whistling  cheerfully  along.  Pattie  Batch 
went  into  the  cabin  in  shame  such  as  she  had 
never  known  before — burning,  red  shame,  flaring 
in  her  heart  and  flushing  her  face. 

Next  day  was  the  baby's  birthday.  Nobody 
knew  the  baby's  birthday,  of  course ;  but  next 
day  was  the  baby's  birthday,  nevertheless.  That 
is  to  say,  it  was  Pop's  birthday — the  birthday  of 
Gray  Billy  Batch,  lost  in  Rattle  Water,  and 
decently  stowed  away  in  the  green  field  near  by 
town  three  years  ago  by  young  John  Fairmeadow. 
The  baby  must  have  a  birthday,  to  be  sure. 
Why  not  Pop's  birthday  ?  The  memory  of  Gray 
Billy  Batch  would  in  this  be  honoured  ;  and  the 
baby  would  be  decently  outfitted  with  an  anni- 
versary such  as  every  other  baby  in  the  world 
surely  possessed.  John  Fairmeadow  was  coming 
to  tea.  Nobody  else  was  coming.  There  was 
nobody  else,  in  fact,  quite  good  enough — not 
quite  good  enough — to  participate  in  the  celebra- 
tion of  a  festival  so  distinguished.  And  John 


THE    TRIAL    KISS 

Fairmeadow  came — came  just  when  the  shadows 
of  the  great  pines  at  the  edge  of  the  clearing  had 
crept  near  and  the  flushed  sun  was  dropping  into 
a  glowing  bed  of  cloud.  John  Fairmeadow  was 
in  rare  spirits.  He  was  quite  irresistible  with  his 
banter.  Pattie  Batch,  troubled  little  heart !  and 
strangely  detached  from  all  this  bubbling  hap- 
piness, almost  said  yes,  in  sheer  absent-minded- 
ness, when  he  demanded  to  know  whether  or  not 
she  had  made  up  her  mind  at  last  to  take  him 
for  better  and  for  worse.  John  Fairmeadow 
laughed — John  Fairmeadow  joked  in  his  gigantic 
way — John  Fairmeadow  tossed  and  tickled  the 
baby  until  that  knowing  prodigy  (being  now  on 
the  edge  of  speech)  almost  commanded  him  to 
behave  himself — and  John  Fairmeadow  ate  and 
drank  everything  in  sight  when  tea  was  spread 
on  a  little  table  outside  in  the  sunset  light. 

When  the  stars  were  out  and  the  baby  had 
been  stowed  away — when  the  mild  pine  breeze 
had  failed  and  the  mystery  of  its  silence  lay  again 
upon  the  woods  and  clearing — when  the  great 
moon  had  risen  round  and  bright  above  the  pines 
— Pattie  Batch  walked  with  John  Fairmeadow  to 
the  trail  to  town  ;  and  there,  at  this  old  parting 
place,  she  stood  downcast  and  disquieted. 

"  I  have  been  wicked,"  she  whispered. 

"  Wicked !  "  Fairmeadow  ejaculated,  in  quick 
alarm. 

"  I  have  been  very  wicked." 


THE    "TRIAL    KISS  251 

There  was  silence. 

"  I  got  t'  tell  you  !  "  said  Pattie  Batch. 

"  Tell  me,"  said  Fairmeadow,  his  alarm  now 
grown  beyond  him,  "  just  what  a  friend  may 
know." 

Pattie  looked  away. 

"  Tell  me  nothing,"  Fairmeadow  warned. 

"I  got  t'." 

Fairmeadow  waited. 

"Jimmie  the  Gentleman — he " 

"Well?"  Fairmeadow  demanded  harshly. 

"  You  thee,  thir,"  Pattie  gasped,  "  Jimmie  the 
Gentleman — he — kithed  me." 

Fairmeadow  started ;  but  presently  he  pos- 
sessed himself  again,  and  continued  silent,  un- 
able, for  pain  and  rage,  to  utter  a  word. 

"  He— he— kithed  me." 

"  That,"  said  Fairmeadow,  quietly,  "  is  a  mat- 
ter easily  remedied.  Jimmie  the  Gentleman,"  he 
added,  distinctly,  "  will  not — salute — you  again 
against  your  will.  I  will  see  to  it  that  Jimmie  the 
Gentleman — does — not — offend — again." 

"  I  athked  him  to." 

"  You— asked — him  to  do — that?  " 

"  Yeth,  thir." 

Fairmeadow  sighed. 

"  I — I  athked  him,"  Pattie  went  on,  "  becauthe 
I — I  been  lookin'  for  a  father  for  the  baby,  an' 
I — I  thought  I'd  have  him  d-do  it,"  she  stam- 
mered, "  t'  thee — t'  thee— how  I  l-liked  it." 


252  THE    TRIAL    KISS 

"  Was  it  very  nice  ?  " 

"  No,  thir." 

"  Was  it  nice,  at  all  ?  " 

"  No,  thir." 

"  Would  you  like  him " 

"No,  thir,"  very  promptly. 

There  was  another  silence.  Pattie  had  no 
courage  to  lift  her  eyes  from  the  moss.  Fair- 
meadow  stood  in  amazed  contemplation  of  the 
downcast  little  figure.  The  stars  looked  down — 
winking  their  perfect  understanding  of  the  situa- 
tion. The  big  moon  peeped  over  the  trees  as 
though  bound  not  to  miss  a  moment  of  the 
comedy.  And  presently  Fairmeadow  laughed. 
It  was  no  dubious  chuckle.  It  was  a  roar  of 
laughter — hearty  and  prolonged.  And  the  stars 
winked  as  fast  as  they  very  well  could  ;  and  the 
man  in  the  moon  grinned  his  broadest  in  sym- 
pathy. Indeed,  the  face  of  the  whole  sky  was 
wrinkled  and  twitching  with  amusement,  and 
kept  grinning  and  winking  away  until  John  Fair- 
meadow — for  the  moment  a  daring  fellow — took 
Pattie  Batch's  little  hand  in  his,  and  tipped  up 
her  little  face  with  his  forefinger,  and  found  her 
gray  eyes  with  his  own,  and  looked  deep  down 
therein,  but  not  in  the  way  of  Jimmie  the  Gentle- 
man. Whereupon  of  sheer  interest  the  little 
stars  stopped  winking,  and  the  big  round  moon, 
intensely  agitated,  peered  with  shameless  curi- 
osity into  the  clearing,  and  the  whole  world  of 


THE    'TRIAL    KISS  2?) 

sky  and  forest  bent  near,  determined  to  hear,  in 
this  silence  of  the  June  night,  every  word  that 
young  John  Fairmeadow  should  say  to  the  little 
culprit  whom  he  held  ever  so  gently  by  the 
hand. 

"  Pattie  Batch,"  said  John  Fairmeadow,  se- 
verely, "  don't  you  dare  to  do  it  again  !  " 

Pattie  flashed  him  a  shy  smile. 

"Young  woman,"  Fairmeadow  continued, 
more  severely  still,  "if  ever  you  feel  that  a 
similar  operation,  performed  with  perfect  pro- 
priety, would  conduce  to  your  peace  in  the 
world,  just  glance  over  your  list  of  eligibles, 
and  consider  the  name  of  the  first  applicant 
thereon  set  down,  and  then  instantly  come " 

Pattie  Batch  fled  chuckling  up  the  path. 

With  Jimmie  the  Gentleman,  at  Swamp's  End, 
that  night,  John  Fairmeadow  procured  the  favour 
of  a  word  or  two.  The  words  were  not  many ; 
and  they  were  quiet-spoken — and  they  were 
uttered  in  private.  Moreover,  they  impressed 
Jimmie  the  Gentleman.  They  were  so  impress- 
ive, indeed,  that  Jimmie  the  Gentleman  might 
have  repeated  them,  every  one  of  them,  word  for 
word,  had  he  been  required  to  do  so.  The  con- 
clusion— which  is  quite  sufficient  to  repeat — was 
this  :  "Jimmie,  my  boy,  you  have  had  a  narrow, 
a  very  narrow,  escape."  To  which  Jimmie  the 
Gentleman,  having  not  yet  quite  recovered  his 


254  THE    TRIAL    KISS 

colour,  stuttered,  in  reply :  "  I — I  guess  that's 
right,  Mr.  Fairmeadow." 

"  It  is!  "  said  John  Fairmeadow. 

Jimmie  nodded. 

"  You  bet  your  life  it  is  !  "  John  Fairmeadow 
exploded,  slapping  his  fist  into  the  palm  of  his 
hand. 

"  Yes,"  said  Jimmie. 

"  You'll  remember  ?  " 

And  Jimmie  remembered. 


XXVI 

UNDER   FIRE 

NOW,  at  last,  the  great  day  had  come. 
John  Fairmeadow  was  to  be  examined 
for  ordination.  If  all  went  well — and 
John  Fairmeadow  devoutly  hoped  that  by  some 
extraordinary  chance  all  might  go  well — if  all 
went  well,  John  Fairmeadow  would  presently 
become  a  "real"  minister.  That  was  what  the 
boys  wanted ;  that  was  what  they  had  with 
many  flattering  apologies  suggested.  The  boys 
naturally  wanted  the  "real  thing."  The  boys 
ought  to  have  the  "real  thing."  Nothing  was 
too  good  for  the  boys.  John  Fairmeadow  was 
bound  to  give  them  the  "  real  thing"  if  he  could. 
Consequently,  John  Fairmeadow  had  for  weeks 
— for  many  months,  indeed — concerned  himself 
in  his  leisure  moments  (which  were  few)  with  the 
sources  of  Christian  theology,  with  the  nature  of 
God,  with  an  intimate  examination  of  the  claims 
of  the  Trinity  to  existence  in  fact,  with  the 
origin  of  sin,  and  with  exegesis,  apologetics, 
church  history,  and  the  like ;  but  he  was  not  at 
all  sure,  with  all  his  labour,  that  his  information 
in  respect  to  these  abstruse  affairs  was  either 

255 


256  UNDER    FIRE 

accurate  or  anything  like  complete.  But  John 
Fairmeadow  must  do  the  best  he  could.  The 
examining  committee  would  presently  arrive  ;  the 
committee  would  be  ushered  into  One  Eyed 
Mag's  little  parlour  below  and  would  there  pro- 
ceed with  an  embarrassing  inquisition  into  John 
Fairmeadow 's  qualifications  for  preaching  the 
Gospel.  John  Fairmeadow  thought  little  enough 
of  those  selfsame  qualifications,  if  theological 
learning  were  to  constitute  them  ;  and  doubtless 
the  examining  committee  would  think  much  less 
of  them.  But  John  Fairmeadow,  industrious  to 
the  end,  conned  his  great  text-book  of  systematic 
theology,  determined  to  acquit  himself  like  a  man, 
if  for  nothing  else  than  to  honour  the  boys. 

Billy  the  Beast,  who  had  lain  since  midnight 
trussed  up  on  John  Fairmeadow's  bed,  opened 
his  eyes. 

"Parson,"  said  he,  in  amazement,  "what  the 
hell  are  you  doin'  ?" 

Fairmeadow  proceeded  with  his  reading : 
"  'God  dwells  in  the  universe,  and  is  active  in 
the  whole  of  it,  but  is  not  to  be  conceived  as 
wholly  occupied  by  it,  or  exhausting  His  pos- 
sibilities in  conducting  its  processes.'  " 

"  Readiri  f"  Billy  the  Beast  demanded. 

"  '  By  the  immanence  of  God,'  "  Fairmeadow 
read  on,  " '  is  meant  that  He  is  everywhere  and 
always  present  in  the  universe,  nowhere  absent 
from  it,  never  separated '  " 


UNDER    FIRE  257 

"  Gimme  a  drink,"  said  Billy  the  Beast. 

"  No,  Billy ;  you  can't  have  a  drink.  '  The 
ideas  of  immanence  and  transcendence '  " 

"  Gimme  a  drink !  " 

"  You  don't  need  a  drink,  Billy,"  Fairmeadow 
protested,  without  looking  up;  "you'll  pull 
through  without  a  drink."  He  went  on  with  his 
reading  :  " '  The  ideas  of  immanence  and  tran- 
scendence are  sometimes  set  in ' " 

"  For  God's  sake ! "  the  Beast  wailed,  "  gimme 
a  drink." 

Fairmeadow  scowled.  '"The  ideas  of  imma- 
nence and  transcendence,'  "  he  read  on,  with  a 
sigh,  " '  are  sometimes  set  in  opposition  to  each 
other,  and  each  has  even  had  its  advocate ;  but 
this  is  needless  and  wrong.  Each  conception 
needs  the  other.  Transcendence  without  im- 
manence   * " 

A  flow  of  soft  profanity  issued  from  the 
Beast's  dry  lips. 

"  Quit  it ! "  Fairmeadow  commanded.  "  You 
bother  me." 

Billy  sighed. 

" '  Transcendence  without  immanence,'  "  Fair- 
meadow  read,  scratching  his  bewildered  head, 
" '  would  give  us  Deism,  cold  and  barren  ;  im- 
manence without  transcendence  would  give  us 
Pantheism,  fatalistic  and  paralyzing.  The  two 
coexist  in  God ' " 

"Sayl" 


258  UNDER   FIRE 

"  '  His  omnipresent  energy  is  His  immanence  ; 
but  so  great  is  that ' ' 

"Say!" 

" '  So  great  is  that  omnipresent  energy  that 
instead  of  being ' ' 

"  Say ! "  Billy  the  Beast  roared  ;  "  am  I  goin' 
t'  get  that  drink  or  not  ?  " 

Fairmeadow  touched  the  Beast's  pulse. 
"  You  are  not"  said  he.  " '  Instead  of  being 
the  fully- worked  slave  of  the  universe  that  He 
inhabits  and  maintains ' " 

"Say!" 

" '  God  is  its  master.'  " 

"  Say ! " 

Fairmeadow  closed  the  book.  "  Look  here, 
Billy  ! "  said  he.  "  You  don't  need  a  drink ;  you 
can  pull  through,  this  time,  without  a  drink,  and 
you're  not  going  to  get  a  drink.  Be  quiet.  Go 
to  sleep.  Don't  you  see  that  you're  bothering 
me?  Leave  me  alone.  I've  enough  on  my 
hands  to  trouble  me  as  it  is.  If  in  half  an  hour 
I  don't  know  a  good  deal  more  about  God  than 
I  seem  to  know  at  this  minute,"  he  added,  im- 
pressively, "  I'll  flunk." 

"Ye'll  what?" 

"  Flunk,  I  tell  you !  " 

"That's  awful!"  said  the  Beast.  "Is  it 
deadly?" 

"  Not  necessarily,"  Fairmeadow  replied ;  "  but 
it's  a  very  unpleasant  experience." 


UNDER    FIRE  259 

When  Billy  the  Beast  had  been  completely  in- 
formed— when  he  understood  the  nature  and 
probable  event  of  the  impending  examination — 
when  he  knew  that  examining  committee  was 
about  to  arrive  with  certain  grave  questions 
touching  the  nature  of  God — he  fell  quiet.  "  You 
go  right  ahead  with  your  readin',  parson,"  said 
he.  "  Ye'll  need  to.  Don't  ye  mind  me.  An', 
say,  parson  !  "  said  he  ;  "  if  them  sky -pilots  says 
you  don't  know  more  about  God  than  they  do, 
you  come  up  an'  loose  me.  That's  all  you  got  t' 
do,  parson.  You  jus'  come  up  an'  turn  me  loose  ! 
I'll  fix  it  fer  ye."  Fairmeadow  was  then  per- 
mitted to  reopen  his  text-book,  and  to  proceed  to 
discover  a  great  deal  about  God's  spiritual  pur- 
pose in  the  universe,  and  about  His  right  of  control 
throughout  the  universe,  which  the  young  fellow 
had  not  known  before,  at  least  in  positive  terms. 

It  was  unfortunate,  of  course,  that,  the  night 
before,  John  Fairmeadow  had  gone  into  the  Cafe 
of  Egyptian  Delights ;  it  was  more  unfortunate 
still  that  he  had  been  moved  to  glance  over  the 
collection  of  stupefied  sots  in  the  snake-room. 
The  collection  had  been  large  and  varied  :  it  was 
Sunday  night.  And  however  unfortunate  it  was 
that  John  Fairmeadow  had  been  led  to  glance  it 
over,  it  was  more  unfortunate  still  that  he  had 
found  Billy  the  Beast  a  conspicuous  member  of 
that  snoring  gathering — Billy  the  Beast  evidently 


260  UNDER    FIRE 

come  close  to  the  drunkard's  most  terrible  pass. 
John  Fairmeadow  forgot  the  text- book  of  system- 
atic theology  to  which  he  had  been  hurrying ; 
he  forgot,  even,  that  the  committee  was  coming, 
that  his  ordination  hung  in  the  balance,  that  the 
boys  wanted  the  "  real  thing  "  and  that  he  had 
determined  to  give  the  boys  the  "  real  thing  "  if 
he  could  manage  it.  There  was  only  one  thing 
to  do — only  one  business  with  which  a  lay- 
preacher  could  then  properly  occupy  himself. 
Fairmeadow  went  for  his  wheelbarrow  ;  and, 
having  come  again,  shouldered  the  Beast,  car- 
ried him  through  the  barroom,  flung  him  into 
the  barrow,  trundled  him  home,  shouldered  him 
up-stairs  and  put  him  to  bed.  Fairmeadow  had 
thereupon  spent  the  night  with  the  erudite  re- 
search into  the  origin  of  sin  and  the  nature  of 
God.  It  was  not  until  past  dawn — not  until  Billy 
the  Beast  had  begun  to  stir  and  moan  in  his 
sleep — that  Fairmeadow  trussed  him  up  with  a 
length  of  stout  rope  which  he  kept  in  his  little 
room  above  the  Mother-Used-To-Make-It  for  that 
very  purpose. 

"  That's  not  too  tight,"  he  thought,  when  he 
had  accomplished  this  admirable  precaution ; 
"  that  won't  hurt  him." 

Billy  muttered  restlessly. 

"  I  wonder,"  Fairmeadow  thought,  "  if  God 
will  ever  save  this  poor  fellow  from  his  wretched- 
ness. I'll  pray  again,"  he  determined. 


UNDER    FIRE  261 

The  which  he  did. 

When  the  committee  arrived,  Fairmeadow 
bade  the  shivering  Beast  behave  himself,  urged 
him  to  make  no  disturbing  noise,  implored  him 
in  particular  to  make  no  effort  to  escape,  eased 
his  bonds  a  little,  denied  his  plea  for  a  dram  of 
liquor,  peeped  for  the  last  time  into  the  nature  of 
God  as  disclosed  in  the  ponderous  text-book  of 
theology,  and  went  anxiously  below  to  One  Eyed 
Mag's  parlour,  where  a  committee  of  two  genially 
awaited  him.  They  were  fine  fellows.  John 
Fairmeadow  was  instantly  persuaded  of  it. 
One  glance  was  sufficient.  "  Glad  to  see  you, 
boys  1 "  he  exclaimed,  heartily  ;  "it's  awfully 
good  in  you  to  come  'way  out  here  to  the 
backwoods  and  bother  your  heads  with  a  stupid 
layman."  And  to  this  warm  outburst — and  to  a 
hearty  shake  of  the  hand — and  to  a  friendly  clap 
on  the  back — the  examining  committee  responded 
with  smiles  equally  warm.  They  were  both 
young  ;  and  they  were  true  to  the  type,  in  some 
respects  curiously  alike :  they  were  smartly 
dressed  in  well-cut  black,  they  were  straight  and 
virile,  they  displayed  no  marks  of  care,  their  eyes 
were  frank,  clear,  intelligent.  Fine  fellows,  both 
— young  fellows  of  high  ideals  and  easy  con- 
sciences. Fairmeadow  liked  them.  He  was 
himself  palpably  inferior ;  he  was  big,  and 
brown,  and  abrupt,  and  belligerent,  and  alert, 


262  UNDER   FIRE 

and  energetic,  of  course,  but  he  lacked  the  re- 
finement of  his  inquisitors — the  small  graces  they 
so  easily  displayed — and  his  eyes,  though  frank 
and  eager,  were  a  bit  bleared  by  his  night's  oc- 
cupation, and  his  hair  was  tousled,  and  the  legs 
of  his  trousers  were  tucked  away  in  his  boot- 
tops,  and  his  attire  was  that  of  a  lumber-jack, 
and  his  face  was  seamed  with  weather  and  trouble. 
However,  it  seemed  not  to  matter  at  all.  The 
examining  committee  had  evidently  taken  a 
fancy  to  John  Fairmeadow. 

"  Boys,"  Fairmeadow  apologized,  "  I'm  afraid 
I'm  going  to  make  a  fool  of  myself.  You  see, 
I've  been  awfully  busy.  Out  here,  you  see, 
it's  the  hardest  thing  in  the  world  to  get  a 
minute " 

There  was  a  thump  on  the  floor  overhead. 

"  The  hardest  thing  in  the  world,"  Fairmeadow 
repeated,  frowning,  his  ear  cocked  for  sounds 
from  above,  "  to  get  a  minute ' 

The  thump  was  repeated. 

"  Yes,"  Fairmeadow  went  on,  awkwardly ; 
"  you  see,  boys,  out  here  in  the  woods " 

The  floor  creaked  overhead. 

"  I'm  sure,  Mr.  Fairmeadow,"  one  of  the  young 
ministers  put  in,  to  ease  John  Fairmeadow's  em- 
barrassment, "  that  you'll  do  very  well.  Now,  let 
us  not  waste  time.  Let  us " 

"  Of  course  ! "  Fairmeadow  agreed.  "  The 
sooner  this  thing  is  over,"  he  added,  with  mani- 


UNDER    FIRE  263 

fest  anxiety  to  have  it  over  and  done  with,  the 
while  listening,  "  the  better  I'll  be  pleased." 
"Very  well!    Well,  now,  Mr.  Fairmeadow " 

The  examination  of  John  Fairmeadow  for  or- 
dination proceeded.  It  was  not  a  great  success. 
In  the  first  place,  the  candidate  seemed  for  some 
strange  reason  to  have  no  realizing  sense  of  the 
importance  of  the  questions  he  was  required  to 
answer.  Instead  of  heeding  his  examiners  as  a 
diligent  student  for  the  honour  of  ordination 
might  very  well  be  expected  to  do,  he  displayed 
an  odd  and  completely  unaccountable  distrac- 
tion :  so  that  he  frequently  ejaculated,  "  I  beg 
your  pardon,  boys !  What  was  that  last  ques- 
tion?" Moreover,  it  was  observed  that  his  re- 
plies were  confused,  not  altogether,  it  appeared, 
because  of  dense  ignorance,  but  because,  in  part, 
at  least,  of  a  lack  of  interest  in  the  proceed- 
ings (from  which  his  attention  continuously 
wandered),  and  because  of  an  acute  and  alert 
interest  in  respect  to  some  mysterious  hap- 
penings in  a  room  above,  these  being  quite 
foreign  to  the  matter  in  hand.  The  commit- 
tee was  unfavourably  impressed.  Had  the 
committee  not  been  above  indulging  unkind 
suspicion,  the  committee  might  without  doing 
violence  to  its  cpmmon  sense  have  suspected 
John  Fairmeadow  of  labouring  under  a  guilty 
conscience :  John  Fairmeadow  displayed  every 


264  UNDER   FIRE 

symptom  of  the  thing ;  and  had  it  been  at  all 
possible  for  him  to  cheat  the  committee,  under 
the  committee's  two  noses,  the  candidate,  such 
was  his  uneasiness  and  flushed  condition  and 
nervous  demeanour,  might  fairly  have  been  sus- 
pected of  that  disreputable  business.  In  addi- 
tion to  this,  the  candidate  displayed  no  impress- 
ive acquaintance  with  the  origin  of  sin,  could 
barely  scrape  through  an  apology  for  the  Trinity, 
was  decidedly  weak  in  respect  to  origin  of  the 
Book  of  Genesis,  was  of  doubtful  acquaintance 
with  the  Church  in  mediaeval  times,  and  would  be 
hanged  (said  he)  if  he  could  tell  who  was  Caesar 
of  Rome  when  Paul  preached  in  Athens ! 

The  examination  was  eventually  interrupted 
by  a  crash  of  glass  proceeding  from  a  room  up- 
stairs. 

"Boys,"  said  Fairmeadow,  "you'll  have  to  ex- 
cuse me.  I'm  busy." 

"Certainly,"  said  the  committee,  politely. 
"  And  at  your  conven " 

"  I'm  awfully  sorry  it  has  turned  out  this  way," 
Fairmeadow  apologized.  "I've  an  unexpected 
little  job  on  my  hands.  Nothing  much,"  he 
added,  hastily  ;  "  but  it  may  take  a  little  time." 

The  committee  bowed  sympathetically.  "  How 
long  will  it  be  before " 

"  Not  to-day,  boys,"  Fairmeadow  replied, 
hastily.  "  I've  a  little  job  on  hand  that  will  keep 
me  all  day.  The  fact  is " 


UNDER    FIRE  265 

At  that  moment  the  door  was  softly  opened 
and  a  frowzy  head  was  intruded  into  the  exam- 
ination chamber. 

"  I  found  yer  bottle,  parson,"  a  hoarse  voice 
whispered. 

Fairmeadow  flashed  about  in  horror. 

44  Parson,"  Billy  the  Beast  whispered,  fixing 
the  committee  with  a  baleful  glance,  "is  them 
there  little  dude  sky-pilots  givin'  ye  a  square 
deal?  If  they  hain't,  parson — I'm  loose!" 

Fairmeadow  was  far  too  genuine  a  man  to 
trouble  about  what  the  examining  young  min- 
isters might  suspect  in  respect  to  the  bottle 
which  Billy  the  Beast  had  discovered  in  his 
room.  The  bottle  troubled  him,  nevertheless ; 
it  troubled  him  chiefly  because  Billy  the  Beast 
had  all  too  evidently  absorbed  its  contents,  and 
was  now,  beyond  question,  not  only  in  a  mood 
to  indulge  all  the  devilish  propensities  and  per- 
versities which  were  accustomed  to  possess  him 
when  in  liquor,  but  was  helplessly  bound  towards 
the  renewal  of  his  debauch.  Moreover,  in  that 
particular  stage  of  intoxication,  he  was  a  danger- 
ous man :  he  craved  fight — a  gigantic,  savage, 
unkempt,  flaring-eyed  barbarian,  spoiling  for 
fight,  in  which  he  would  not  scruple  to  use  his 
feet  and  his  teeth,  as  well  as  his  fists,  if  he 
could  successfully  employ  them.  And  he 
cavorted  into  the  room,  forthwith,  in  the  manner 


266  UNDER    FIRE 

of  a  fighting-man,  advancing  and  retreating 
with  quick  little  steps,  and  feinting  with  his  fists. 
He  advanced,  in  this  threatening  manner,  upon 
the  smart  little  ministers,  who  promptly  rose, 
and  in  some  agitation,  to  meet  him  ;  and  he 
demanded,  with  every  evidence  of  the  intention  of 
knocking  their  heads  together,  of  wringing  their 
neatly-collared,  slender  necks,  and  of  eating  'em 
up  for  dinner — he  demanded  whether  or  not  it 
was  their  purpose  to  flunk  the  parson  :  adding, 
before  John  Fairmeadow  could  interrupt,  that  by 
the  Eternal  he  would  instantly  put  them  through 
a  sausage-grinder  if  they  should  display  the 
least  idea  of  "  trying  it  on."  It  was  an  awkward 
moment  for  the  young  ministers  :  their  intimate 
and  authoritative  acquaintance  with  the  origin 
of  sin,  of  course,  could  not,  as  they  were  well 
aware,  preserve  them  from  the  sinful  conduct 
presently  to  be  manifested  ;  but  they  were  cour- 
ageous young  fellows,  notwithstanding,  and 
stood  bravely  to  their  guns,  drawn  up  with 
dignity  and  flushed  with  resentment. 

"  Easy,  Billy  !  "  Fairmeadow  put  in,  harshly. 
"  Take  care  ! " 

Billy  leaned  close  to  the  younger  young 
minister. 

"I  want  t'  pull  your  nose,"  said  he,  softly. 

The  younger  young  minister  would  not  by 
any  means  permit  the  indignity. 

"  It  needs  pullm',"  Billy  urged. 


UNDER    FIRE  267 

"Standoff!" 

"An'  I  feel  jus'  like  pullin'  it,"  Billy  added. 

"  Stand  off  1 " 

"  Now,  young  feller,"  the  Beast  went  on,  rolling 
up  his  sleeve,  "  I  ain't  goin'  t'  hurt  ye.  Stand 
still,  an'  it'll  be  over  in  a  minute." 

Fairmeadow's  hand  fell  heavily  on  the  Beast's 
shoulder.  "  That'll  do  !  "  said  he.  "No  more 
of  it ! " 

"  But,  parson " 

"  No  more  of  it,  I  say  ! " 

Billy  the  Beast  felt  Fairmeadow's  hand  slip 
cautiously  to  his  wrist.  At  the  same  moment  he 
looked  into  Fairmeadow's  eyes  and  discovered 
Fairmeadow's  purpose.  And  he  was  not  caught 
napping.  He  wrenched  his  hand  free,  leaped 
away,  with  an  oath,  and  stood  on  guard,  eyeing 
big  John  Fairmeadow  alertly.  Fairmeadow 
slipped  out  of  his  jacket,  muttered,  "  Excuse 
me  for  a  minute,  boys  I "  to  the  young  min- 
isters, with  much  politeness,  and  advanced 
cautiously  to  the  attack.  It  was  a  memorable 
engagement ;  at  least,  it  was  never  forgotten  by 
the  young  ministers  who  had  come  to  determine 
John  Fairmeadow's  qualifications  for  preaching 
the  Gospel  to  the  lumber-jacks  of  that  section. 
But  it  was  not  a  long  engagement.  John  Fair- 
meadow  was  not  used  to  long  engagements  of 
that  nature  ;  they  were  altogether  opposed  to  his 
religion  and  ethical  policy.  He  went  swiftly  to 


268  UNDER    FIRE 

close  quarters  with  the  Beast,  dodged  a  terrific 
swing,  and  struck  once  before  he  leaped  away. 
But  he  had  not  struck  hard  enough.  "  Pshaw  1 " 
he  grunted,  disgusted  and  distressed.  "I'll  have 
to  hit  him  again."  He  went  in  for  the  second 
time  with  a  grim  and  cruel  intention.  It  was 
with  the  purpose  of  hitting  the  Beast  so  hard 
and  at  a  point  so  vital  that  the  gigantic  lumber- 
jack would  crumple  up  and  lie  still  until  he 
could  be  put  to  bed  again.  The  affair  must 
issue  that  way  or  John  Fairmeadow's  discourse 
would  utterly  fail  of  edifying  Billy  the  Beast  in 
any  degree  whatsoever.  The  Beast  must  not  be 
permitted  to  escape  to  the  saloons. 

Fairmeadow  advanced. 

"  D-d-don't  hurt  him  ! "  the  younger  young 
minister  feelingly  stuttered. 

Fairmeadow  did  not  hurt  the  Beast.  In  fact — 
and  greatly  to  his  distress — Fairmeadow  missed 
the  Beast  entirely.  Whereupon,  the  Beast,  with 
a  whoop  of  triumph,  laid  John  Fairmeadow  flat, 
leaped  for  the  door,  vanished  from  the  room,  and 
scampered  off  towards  the  Cafe  of  Egyptian  De- 
lights. And  Fairmeadow  jumped  up,  ejacu- 
lated, "  Excuse  me,  boys  ;  we'll  have  to  postpone 
this  examination.  I  must  save  that  man  !  "  and 
took  after  the  lumber-jack.  It  was  night  before 
he  returned  ;  and  he  was  worn  out,  then,  and  in- 
finitely depressed,  and  hopeless  concerning  him- 
self, his  ministry,  and  all  the  sinful  sons  of  men  ; 


UNDER    FIRE  209 

J3Ut  he  had  Billy  the  Beast  in  the  wheelbarrow, 
and  he  carried  the  man  up-stairs,  and  put  him  to 
bed,  determined  to  watch  with  more  devotion 
until  the  sot  had  recovered  his  sobriety  and 
could  control  himself  on  the  way  to  the  camps  of 
the  Cant-hook  cutting.  In  the  meantime,  the 
examining  committee,  having  grown  discouraged, 
had  departed  on  the  evening  train,  leaving 
word,  in  the  form  of  a  communication,  couched 
in  terms  of  distinguished  politeness,  that  their 
findings,  in  respect  to  John  Fairmeadow's  quali- 
fications for  ordination,  would  in  due  time  be  re- 
ported to  the  Body  by  which  they  had  been 
commissioned,  and  would,  no  doubt,  eventually 
be  communicated  to  John  Fairmeadow  himself. 
With  this  John  Fairmeadow  must  be  content. 
But  the  issue  was  not  in  doubt  in  his  mind. 
They  would  not  ordain  him.  How  could  they  ? 
Why  should  they  ?  John  Fairmeadow  was  far 
better  aware  than  the  examining  committee  of 
his  own  wretched  ignorance  in  all  things  con- 
cerning the  origin  of  sin,  the  authorship  of 
Genesis,  the  Church  in  the  mediaeval  ages,  and 
the  government  of  Rome  in  the  days  of  the 
Apostle  Paul.  "  Hang  it  all !  "  he  ejaculated, 
while  he  sat  with  Billy  the  Beast,  now  and  again 
feeling  the  wretched  fellow's  pulse,  now  and 
again  wiping  the  sweat  from  his  brow,  "  I've  no 
time  to  cram  up  those  things ! "  And  having 
changed  the  subject  of  his  thought,  he  came 


270  UNDER.    FIRE 

back,  with  admirable  resolution,  to  the  old  ques- 
tion. "  I  wonder,"  he  thought,  "  if  Almighty 
God  will  ever  save  this  man  from  his  wretched- 
ness. Anyhow,"  he  determined,  "  I'm  going  to 
pray  once  more." 
The  which  he  did. 


XXVII 

BOUND    THROUGH 

IT  turned  out  as  Fairmeadow  had  foreseen. 
In  the  first  place,  Billy  the  Beast  survived 
his  debauch,  expressed  his  contrition,  re- 
newed his  conviction  that  he  would  "  get  home  " 
next  time,  and  returned  sober,  if  a  bit  white  and 
tremulous,  to  the  camps  of  the  Cant-hook  cutting ; 
and  in  the  second  place,  the  Superior  Body 
would  not  sanction  the  ordination  of  John  Fair- 
meadow.  The  communication  to  this  effect  was 
polite  :  it  was  exquisitely  delicate,  indeed — a  very 
masterpiece  of  literary  delicacy.  It  conveyed 
praise  to  John  Fairmeadow,  it  congratulated  him 
upon  the  work  he  was  doing  "  in  the  Master's 
vineyard,"  it  expressed  the  hope  that  he  might 
live  long  to  continue  it,  it  furnished  him  with  a 
benediction ;  but  in  terms  which  could  not  be 
misunderstood  it  at  the  same  time  assured  John 
Fairmeadow  that  he  would  be  no  less  serviceable 
to  his  Master  and  the  Church — that  his  reward 
would  be  quite  as  sure  and  large — if  he  should 
continue  to  labour  as  a  lay  preacher  and  should 
forthwith  and  for  all  time  abandon  his  ambition 
to  enter  the  rough  field  of  the  woods  as  a  regu- 
larly ordained  minister  of  the  Gospel.  The 

271 


272  BOUND    THROUGH 

communication  left  out  a  good  deal.  It  left  out, 
for  example,  the  terms  of  the  brief  and  rather 
humorous  discussion  of  the  case,  which  had 
taken  place  at  a  session  of  the  Superior  Body 
when  the  younger  young  minister  of  the  exami- 
ning committee  had  made  his  rather  facetious 
report  (he  was  a  distinguished  wag)  of  the  oc- 
currences in  the  little  parlour  of  One  Eyed  Mag's 
Mother-Used-To-Make-It  Restaurant.  It  omit- 
ted, too,  all  reference  to  an  exchange  of  opinions 
aboard  train,  in  the  evening  of  that  unfortunate 
day,  when  the  examining  committee,  with  a  re- 
vived sense  of  personal  safety,  was  making  all 
haste  from  the  proximity  of  Billy  the  Beast  and 
his  like. 

"  What  do  you  think,  Jim?  "  the  younger  young 
minister  inquired. 

The  other  laughed. 

"  Come,  now  1 "  the  younger  insisted.  "  Be 
frank." 

"  He's  a  rough  diamond." 

"  He  is  a  diamond,  though.  That's  sure.  I 
like  him." 

"  An  admirable  fellow !     A  splendid  fellow  !  " 

"  Admirable  !  "  the  younger  agreed. 

"  Splendid  !  "  the  other  repeated  "  I  took  a 
great  fancy  to  him.  But " 

"  That's  it ! "  the  younger  interrupted,  hastily. 
"  That's  the  point  !  But " 

"  There's  the  dignity  of " 


BOUND    THROUGH  273 

"  Of  course  1  There's  the  dignity  of  the  cloth 
to  be  considered." 

"  And " 

"  Exactly  ! " 

"  I  rather  think  he  will  do  just  as  good  work 
as  a  lay  preacher." 

"  I  agree  with  you,"  said  the  younger,  emphat- 
ically. "  Let  us  report  in  that  way.  He's  pretty 
rough.  A  diamond,  of  course — but  pretty 
rough !  There's  no  reason  in  the  world  why  he 
should  be  ordained.  And  I  really  think  that  the 
ministry  should  be  protected  against  the  invasion 
of  ignorant  and  uncultivated  men.  I  do,  hon- 
estly ! " 

Of  all  this,  of  course,  John  Fairmeadow  knew 
nothing.  His  rejection  from  this  body  of  ac- 
cepted ministers — ministers  in  law  and  fact — cast 
him  down,  a  little,  but  did  not  discourage  him ; 
and  it  did  not  enter  his  head  either  to  accuse  the 
young  committee  of  unfairness  or  to  abandon  the 
work  in  disgust.  Nothing  of  the  sort !  It  was 
not  long,  indeed,  before  he  began  to  laugh  at 
himself.  "  To  think,"  he  thought,  in  amusement 
with  his  ambition,  "that  a  busy  man  like  me 
could  cram  up  all  that  stuff  in  the  time  I  gave 
myself  1  What  nonsense  !  And  I  never  shall  be 
able  to  cram  it  up.  I'm  too  busy.  But  I  must 
be  ordained.  If  I'm  to  be  as  useful  here  as  I 
might  be,  I  must  be  ordained.  I  must  have  the 
sanction  of  my  Church.  I  must  have  the  back- 


274  BOUND    THROUGH 

ing  of  my  Church.  If  I  am  to  organize  my  work 
— and  I  must  organize  my  work — I  must  be 
equal  in  standing  with  the  other  ministers  of  my 
Church.  But  I've  no  time — no  time  at  all — to 
cram  that  systematic  theology.  They  must  or- 
dain me  without  it.  They  must !  And  by  Jove ! 
I'll  tell  'em  so  I "  It  was  with  this  object  in  view 
that  John  Fairmeadow  replied  to  the  communi- 
cation of  the  Superior  Body,  genuinely  congratu- 
lating the  brethren  upon  the  wisdom  of  their 
decision  in  his  case,  but  requesting,  as  a 
peculiar  indulgence,  that  he  might  have  the 
honour  of  addressing  the  brethren,  in  his  own  be- 
half, at  a  future  meeting.  And  in  this  John 
Fairmeadow  displayed  not  only  his  wisdom  but 
his  goodness  of  heart.  It  was  quite  impossible 
for  the  Superior  Body,  with  this  limited  knowl- 
edge of  the  applicant,  to  ordain  John  Fair- 
meadow  ;  and  John  Fairmeadow  had  the  good 
sense  to  know  it. 

The  Superior  Body  was  not  behind  in  the  dis- 
play of  good  sense  and  kindness.  John  Fair- 
meadow  was  informed  that  he  would  in  due 
course  be  notified  of  the  time  at  which  he  would 
be  expected  to  address  the  brethren.  There  was 
a  long  delay,  to  be  sure  ;  but  in  the  meantime 
Fairmeadow  was  busy,  and  minded  the  months 
of  delay  not  at  all. 

It  was  the  custom   of  Pale  Peter's  Donald, 


BOUND    THROUGH  275 

upon  occasion,  to  go  preaching  with  John  Fair- 
meadow  ;  and  Fairmeadow  maintained — and 
Pale  Peter  assented  with  a  laugh — that  it  did  the 
boy  no  harm  whatsoever,  though  it  might  make 
a  preacher  of  him  in  the  end.  "Jack,"  Pale 
Peter  was  used  to  saying  to  the  minister,  with 
a  grin,  "  if  the  lad  turns  out  a  better  rascal  than 
I,  I'll  be  content ;  and  if  the  good  deeds  you 
waste  like  water  on  the  swine  of  these  woods 
make  him  a  better  saint  than  yourself,  I'll  not  be 
disappointed."  It  came  about  in  this  way  that 
when  Fairmeadow  fell  in  with  Billy  the  Beast 
for  the  last  time  at  Camp  Three  of  the  Cant-hook 
cutting,  young  Donald  was  at  his  elbow.  It 
was  midwinter,  then,  and  perishing  cold  in  the 
world.  There  was  a  still,  dry,  scorching  frost. 
It  crackled  brittlely  underfoot — hard  and  sharp 
as  breaking  glass.  It  broke  in  the  shadows  and 
black  branches  of  the  pines ;  it  seemed  to  echo 
in  some  uncanny  way  far  off  in  the  wintry  forest 
silence.  There  was  no  wind  stirring ;  the  trees 
were  black  and  heavily  still,  and  no  frosty  dust 
was  lifted  from  the  snow  to  obscure  the  limpid 
blue  air.  The  night  bit  like  frozen  iron.  It  was 
forty-two  below  in  the  woods  twelve  miles  from 
Swamp's  End :  Donald  proved  it  when  they 
came  to  the  superintendent's  log  office  in  the 
clearing. 

It  was  late,  too,  when  Fairmeadow  and  the 
boy   came   to  the   first  chips  of  the  Cant-hook 


276  BOUND    THROUGH 

works  ;  but  a  full  moon,  risen  above  the  pines, 
illuminated  the  logging-road  they  tramped  and 
gave  even  some  doubtful  radiance  to  the  muskegs 
and  deeper  forest  reaches. 

"Ha!"  John  Fairmeadow  ejaculated,  catching 
breath  enough  at  a  gulp  to  burst  the  lungs  of 
many  a  man  ;  "  it's  a  clean  world." 

Donald  laughed. 

Fairmeadow  blew  out  a  vast  white  cloud.  It 
enveloped  him  :  his  face  was  like  a  purple  moon 
in  a  mist. 

"  I  like  it,"  said  he,  fetching  the  lad  a  clap  on 
the  back.  "  I  like  it  very  much.  It's  a  clean 
world,  Donald,  and  I'm  very,  very  fond  of  it." 

"As  clean,"  the  boy  grumbled,  "as  a  chunk 
of  ice." 

"  Breathe  deep,"  Fairmeadow  chuckled  ;  "  the 
night's  clean  in  the  mouth  of  a  man." 

Donnie  tasted  the  metallic  air. 

"  God's  own  clean  world  1 "  said  John  Fair- 
meadow. 

"  There's  no  God  here,"  said  Donnie. 

Fairmeadow  caught  a  great  breath  again  and 
beat  on  his  big  chest  with  both  hands. 

"  No,  sir  !  "  Donnie  protested. 

"You  can't  tell  me  that,"  said  Fairmeadow. 
He  smacked  his  lips — the  night  sweet  in  his 
mouth.  "You'll  have  to  take  that,"  said  he, 
"to  another  shop.  I  know  what  I  know, 
Donald.  I  know  what  I  know." 


BOUND    THROUGH  277 

Donnie  shook  his  head. 

"  No  God  here,  eh  ? "  the  parson  cried,  in 
mock  severity.  "  I'll  fix  you,  when  I  get  you 
back  to  Swamp's  End.  Know  what  you  want? 
You  need  spectacles,  sir,  for  the  young  soul  of 
you  1 " 

"  There's  no  God  out-of-doors  this  night,"  the 
boy  declared,  with  a  wink  he  must  crack  ice  to 
achieve.  "  He'd  freeze  to  the  heart  in  no  time." 

Fairmeadow  laughed  a  little.  "  Where's  He 
gone  ?  "  he  demanded. 

"  I'm  hoping,"  Donald  answered,  with  a  grin, 
"  that  we'll  find  Him  in  the  bunk-house." 

"  Bunk-house  !  "  cried  Fairmeadow.  "  Shall 
we  find  Him  in  the  bunk-house  ? " 

Donald  thought  so. 

Fairmeadow  turned  grave  all  at  once,  and  his 
voice  fell  soft  and  musing.  "  So  do  I,"  said  he. 
"  I  think  so,  too,  Donald.  I  think  He's  in  the 
bunk-house — alive  and  watchful  and  wistful  in 
all  those  hearts." 

Donald  was  once  more  persuaded  that  the 
parson  was  a  very  kind  man. 

"  Some  day,"  Fairmeadow  added,  "  God  will 
answer  with  power  when  I  entreat  Him.  God 
not  here,  eh  ?  "  he  went  on.  "  Not  in  these  big, 
clean,  holy  woods  ?  Not  in  this  great  temple  ? 
Maybe  not — maybe  not.  After  all,  He  does  not 
dwell  in  places,  but  only  in  hearts."  He  stopped 
to  stare  at  a  starlit  ribbon  of  sky  far  beyond  the 


278  BOUND    THROUGH 

black  pines.  "  I  had  rather  search  for  God  in  a 
barroom,"  said  he,  "than  look  for  Him  in  a 
star.  I  think,"  he  added,  presently,  still  regard- 
ing the  far  heavens,  "  that  God  had  rather  lurk 
in  the  heart  of  some  poor  woman  of  Swamp's 
End — that  He  had  rather  lurk  there,  waiting,  in 
some  forgotten  corner — than  have  the  run  of  the 
whole  wide  Milky  Way." 

"  Ah,  come  on !  "  Donnie  grumbled ;  "  my 
nose  is  froze." 

"  It'll  thaw,"  said  Fairmeadow,  softly. 

They  laughed  together  and  went  on.  The 
boy  thought  only  of  the  peeping  lights  of  the 
bunk-house,  which  he  saw  through  frosted  eye- 
lashes. They  gave  a  wide-spread  welcome — 
searching  all  the  pines — to  fellowship  and  a  red 
fire. 

To  warn  the  bunk-house  of  his  coming — to 
enliven,  too,  perhaps,  their  lagging  feet  (there 
were  twelve  cold  miles  and  a  set  sun  behind 
them) — Fairmeadow  broke  out  singing.  Tramp, 
tramp  !  Their  feet  fell  with  new  life  in  them. 
It  was  a  stirring  song.  It  was  an  old  song  of 
the  road, 

"  Onward  Christian  soldiers, 

Marching  as  to  war, 
With  the  cross  of  Jesus, 
Going  on  before " 

and  it  was  sung  with  large  heartiness  by  big" 


BOUND    THROUGH  279 

John  Fairmeadow  of  Swamp's  End.  No  other 
voice,  perhaps,  ever  before  so  nearly  matched 
the  great  woods  themselves  in  the  clear,  uplift- 
ing beauty  and  significance  of  their  own  music. 

"  Christ  the  royal  master, 
Leads  against  the  foe ; 
Forward  into  battle 
See  His  banners " 

There  was  an  exasperated  interruption  : 

"  I  reckon  you're  deaf,  ain't  you  ?  " 

The  voice  had  come  whimpering  in  complaint 
from  the  shadow  of  the  blacksmith's  shop. 

"Hello,  brother!"  cried  Fairmeadow,  heartily. 
"Who  a.reyou?" 

"  Been  a-howlin'  on  ye,"  the  man  in  the 
shadow  snarled,  "  'til  I  got  my  tongue  near 
froze  ! " 

Fairmeadow  laughed.  "  Come  out,  my  son," 
said  he,  "  and  let  me  look  at  you." 

Billy  the  Beast  stepped  into  the  moonlight. 

"  You ! " 

"  Yes,  me  !  "  the  Beast  growled. 

The  parson  spread  his  legs  and  stared.  He 
began  to  whistle,  with  much  feeling : 

"  At  the  sign  of  triumph 

Satan's  host  doth  flee  : 
On,  then,  Christian  soldiers, 
On  to " 

"  I  want  ye,"  said  Billy  the  Beast. 


280  BOUND    -THROUGH 

"Yes?" 

The  Beast  grinned  like  an  ingratiating  culprit 
child. 

"What  do  you  want  of  me?"  Fairmeadow 
abruptly  demanded.  "  Do  you  want  to  make 
arrangements  to  be  hauled  out  of  Pale  Peter's 
snake-room  ?  " 

Billy  kicked  at  the  snow. 

"Well?"  said  the  parson. 

"  I  want  t'  go  home." 

"  Home  I " 

"  I— I — want  t'  go  home." 

Fairmeadow  regarded  him  gravely. 

"Ye  see,  parson,"  the  Beast  went  on,  "I — I — 
jus'  got  t'  go  home." 

"  Home  1 "  the  parson  ejaculated.  "  You — go 
home !  To  what?" 

Once  more  Billy  the  Beast  kicked  at  the  snow. 
"  My  mother  wants  me,"  he  explained.  He 
sighed  then. 

The  parson  stared  at  him. 

"  Ye  see,  parson,"  said  Billy  the  Beast,  simply, 
like  a  boy  who  may  excuse  everything  in  this 
way,  "  my  mother  wants  me  an'  I  got  t'  go." 
He  was  almost  triumphant  in  his  reason. 

The  parson  shook  his  head  in  bewilderment. 

"I'll  be  out  Wednesday  night,"  said  Billy, 
with  much  interest  in  his  own  doings.  He  whis- 
pered, slyly,  "  I'll  be  out  Wednesday  night."  He 
peered  cautiously  into  all  the  shadows  round- 


BOUND    THROUGH  281 

about.  "The  tote-road,"  he  whispered,  "close 
on  nine.  I  reckon  you'll  take  care  o'  me,  won't 
ye,  parson  ?  "  He  sighed.  "  I'll  have  my  stake 
in  my  pocket,"  he  went  on.  "  It'll  be  over  two 
hundred.  An'  you'll  take  care  o'  me,  won't  ye, 
parson  ?  You'll  help  me  past  Pale  Peter's  place, 
won't  ye?  If  ye  let  me  have  one  drink,"  said 
the  Beast,  "I'll  never  get  home." 

It  was  true. 

"  Ye  see,"  Billy  the  Beast  drawled,  "  mother 
sent  for  me  an'  I  got  t'  go  home." 

"  Man,"  the  parson  flared,  "  are  you  fit  to  go 
home  to  your  mother?" 

"  I  reckon,"  Billy  replied,  "  that  she  won't  care 
much  about  that." 

"Not  care?" 

"  Not  once  she  gets  me  home." 

There  was  a  pause. 

"Ye  see,  parson,"  said  the  Beast,  in  anxious 
explanation,  "  mother  wants  me,  an'  I  got  t' 
go." 

"She's  wanted  you  before." 

"  She's  sick,"  Billy  added,  simply. 

The  parson  would  not  speak. 

"  I  want  t'  go  home,"  Billy  repeated.  "  That's 
all.  I  jus'  want  t'  go  home.  Won't  ye  help  me 
past  Pale  Peter's  place?" 

Donald  turned  away. 

"  I'll  never  get  past  Pale  Peter's  place  alone." 

Donald  walked  off. 


282  BOUND    THROUGH 

"  I  tell  you  what  I'll  do,  Billy,"  said  the  par- 
son, heartily  :  "  I'll  pray  for  you." 

"  Pray  fer  me  ! " 

"  I'll  pray  for  you." 

The  Beast  laughed.  "  Is  that  the  best  ye  can 
do?"  he  sneered. 

Fairmeadow  answered,  in  a  flash  : 

"  Pray  for  yourself." 

"  Hell ! "  Billy  laughed.     "  Me  ?  " 

"  What  you  need,"  said  Fairmeadow,  "  is  the 
grace  of  God  in  your  heart.  Get  down  on  your 
knees  and  pray  for  yourself.  Keep  on  praying. 
If  you  do  that,  you'll  get  through  ;  if  you  don't, 
you  won't  get  through." 

"  I  reckon,"  Billy  replied,  "  that  prayer  won't 
keep  my  throat  moist  when  I  come  t*  Pale  Peter's 
door."  He  licked  his  lips.  "Not  moist,"  he 
added.  "  Are  you  goin'  t'  help  me,  parson,"  he 
went  on,  "or  not?" 

"  It's  no  use,  Billy." 

"  My  mother's  sick,  I  tell  ye,  an'  I  got  t'  go 
home ! " 

"  It's  no  use,  Billy." 

"  God  help  me ! "  the  Beast  wailed. 

"  There  you  are  !  "  Fairmeadow  ejaculated, 
delighted.  "  That's  the  thing  !  Keep  on !  " 

"  Will  ye  help  me  if  I  do?" 

"I  will!" 

"  Will  ye  put  me  aboard  train  ?  " 

"  I  will !  " 


BOUND    THROUGH  283 

Billy  the  Beast  collapsed  to  his  knees  ;  and  he 
began  an  incoherent,  abject  petition.  Presently 
— apparently  overcome — he  fell  forward  sprawl- 
ing, his  prayer  spent. 

"That's  all  right,  Billy,"  said  Fairmeadow. 
"  You're  going  through,  this  time,  old  man,  or 
we'll  know  the  reason  why.  That  bunch  of  saloon- 
keepers at  Swamp's  End  carit  lick  God  and  me 
and  you  !  " 


XXVIII 

FATHER  AND  SON 

PALE  PETER,  in  the  little  sanctuary  at  the 
end  of  the  bar — in  the  red-curtained,  easy- 
chaired  seclusion  from  the  bestial  con- 
fusion beyond — in  the  cozy  little  harbour  from 
all  the  coarse  aggravations  of  money-making 
for  his  son's  sake — Pale  Peter  stared  out  into  the 
thick,  whirling,  darkening  storm  of  snow.  It 
was  cold  weather  :  it  was  cold  weather — it  was 
white,  tumultuous  weather,  in  which  no  lad 
should  be  abroad.  Pale  Pater  wondered  where 
the  lad  was.  Where  was  he,  anyhow?  With 
John  Fairmeadow,  of  course — with  the  quixotic 
preacher  of  righteousness  to  the  swine  of  the 
woods.  But — and  the  saloon-keeper  had  often 
admitted  it — the  boy  was  in  the  company  of  the 
only  man  of  all  those  parts  who  could  teach  him 
a  manly  way.  Pale  Peter  was  glad  ;  but  Pale 
Peter  wondered — and  wondered  in  fatherly 
anxiety — whether  or  not  Donnie  was  on  the 
trails — whether  or  not,  in  that  freezing  gale,  the 
boy  was  fed  and  sheltered — whether  or  not  he 
followed,  in  that  white,  frosty  weather,  on  the 
heels  of  a  man  enthusiastic  beyond  his  strength, 

284 


FATHER    AND    SON  285 

a  man,  indeed,  given  to  the  pursuit  of  his  busi- 
ness beyond  the  strength  of  any  lad  to  keep  up 
with.  Pale  Peter  brooded  in  the  warmth  and 
easy  seclusion  of  his  place  beyond  the  bar. 
What  would  it  all  come  to,  anyhow  ?  It  was 
all  for  the  boy — the  robbery,  the  ruinous  in- 
vitation, the  watchful  cultivation  of  every  evil 
propensity  in  the  camps,  the  damnation  of  souls 
old  and  young.  In  what  would  it  end  ?  What 
would  the  boy  win  from  the  opportunity  his 
father's  devotion  would  provide  ?  Would  he  be 
a  man,  when  they  should  go  East  into  a  polite 
world,  with  a  fortune  to  ease  and  advance  him  ? 
Or  would  he,  helplessly  corrupted  by  these 
scenes,  seek  only,  and  at  any  cost  to  the  hearts 
of  other  men,  his  own  way  of  indulgence  and 
happiness  ? 

"  Donnie,"  Pale  Peter  thought,  having 
imagined  the  boy  in  his  presence,  "  how's  it 
going  to  end  ?  " 

Peter  fancied  that  Donnie  replied  : 

"  When  I  grow  up,  father,  I'm  going  to  be 
a  man." 

"  A  decent  man  ?  " 

"  A  decent  man,  father." 

"  That's  good,  boy  !  I  want  you  to  be  a  decent 
man,  God  knows  1 " 

At  this  point  in  Pale  Peter's  imaginary  conver- 
sation with  his  son,  Donald  put  his  arms  around 
his  father.  It  was  wretchedly  sentimental,  of 


286  FATHER    AND    SON 

course,  that  such  a  thing  should  enter  Pale 
Peter's  mind  ;  but  it  did,  nevertheless,  and 
Pale  Peter,  indulging  the  purely  imaginary 
caress,  submitted  with  the  best  grace  he  could 
summon,  which  was  grace  enough,  to  be  sure, 
to  sanction  the  display.  Pale  Peter  rather  liked 
it :  he  liked  the  sense  of  fatherhood  it  gave 
him  ;  he  liked  the  childishness  of  the  act — liked 
to  deceive  himself  with  this  :  that  the  boy  was 
yet  only  a  child,  unknowing,  affectionate,  not 
able  to  be  spoiled  by  the  sins  of  lusty  men,  upon 
which  he  might  look,  but  which  he  could  not, 
being  only  a  little  fellow,  understand,  and  never 
could  imitate.  Not  Donnie ! — not  the  little 
fellow  whom  Pale  Peter  could  still  take  on  his 
knee. 

Pale  Peter  looked  out  of  the  great  window 
into  the  storm.  It  was  winter  weather.  Lord, 
how  cold  it  was  !  And  the  wind  was  blowing  ; 
and  the  wind,  coming  mercilessly  down  from  the 
northwest  upon  the  pines  and  clearings  of  that 
section,  was  bitter  to  feel  and  fearsome  to  re- 
gard. It  blew  high — a  wind  with  strength  and 
frost  and  with  the  blinding  terror  of  snow.  Pale 
Peter  was  distracted  from  his  musing — a  musing 
he  could  manage  and  fashion  untroubled  by  the 
realities — by  the  sight  of  a  black,  stooped, 
struggling  little  figure,  far  off  on  the  Bottle  River 
trail.  The  town — the  situation  of  the  Red 


FATHER.   AND   SON  287 

Elephant — the  sweep  of  white,  wind-swept, 
snow-burdened  street — admitted  of  this  view. 
It  was  Donnie — that  black,  yielding  little  figure. 
It  was  Donnie,  sure  enough  !  Pale  Peter  fancied, 
in  a  flash  of  alarm,  that  something  must  have 
gone  wrong ;  but  when  the  boy  at  last  entered 
the  cozy  little  office  at  the  end  of  the  bar — when 
he  had  brushed  himself  clean  of  snow — when  he 
stood  rosy  and  breathless  and  sparkling  and 
straight  before  Pale  Peter — Pale  Peter  was  not 
afraid.  Donnie  was  surely  well.  There  was  no 
doubt  about  that ! 

"  Hello,  kid ! " 

"Hello,  pop!" 

"  What's  the  matter,  boy  ?  " 

"  Nothing." 

"  What  brought  you  home  ?  " 

"  Oh,  nothing." 

Pale  Peter  watched  the  boy  throw  off  his  little 
pack — watched  him  ease  his  sturdy  legs  of  the 
strain  of  the  laces  of  his  big  boots — heard  him 
sigh — and  observed  that  the  lad  would  not  look 
him  in  the  eyes:  wherefore  he  was  again 
alarmed. 

"  What's  the  matter,  kid  ?  "  he  repeated. 

"Nothing's  the  matter,  pop." 

"Where's  Jack?" 

"  Gone  to  Kettle  Camp." 

"  Without  you  ! " 

"  I  thought  I'd  come  home,  pop,  while  I  could 


288  FATHER   AND   SON 

get  out  of  the  woods,"  Donnie  began.  "It's  bad 
weather,  pop,  and  I  didn't  want  to  get  snowed 
in.  You  see,"  he  ran  on,  with  lively  interest, 
"  Billy  the  Beast's  coming  out  from  the  Cant- 
hook  on  Wednesday.  He's  going  home " 

"Again?"  Peter  laughed. 

"Yes,"  said  Donnie  ;  "and  he's  bound  through, 
this  time.  Jack  swears  it.  Jack  says  that  Billy's 
going  through  this  time  or  he'll  know  the  reason 
why.  I  think  Jack'll  win.  And  I  wanted  to  be 
here,  pop,  to  see  him  on  the  job." 

"  Good  ! "  Peter  ejaculated. 

"  Jack'll  win,  all  right,"  Donnie  repeated. 

"  Glad  of  it ! "  said  Peter.  "  Nothing  I'd  like 
better,"  he  added,  "  than  to  see  Billy  the  Beast 
go  home." 

"It  would  mean  a  good  deal,  pop,  around 
here." 

"To  whom?" 

"To  Jack  and  me,  anyhow.  Jack  says  it 
would  help  our  work " 

"  Your  work !  " 

"  Well,  Jack's  work,  I  mean.' 

"  All  right,  old  man  !  "•  Pale  Peter  declared. 
"  I'll  see  to  it  that  Billy  the  Beast  does  go  home. 
I  tell  you,  Donnie,  Billy  the  Beast,  when  I  get 
through  with  him,  won't  find  a  bar  at  Swamp's 
End  where  he  can  spend  a  penny.  If  you  want 
him  to  go  home,  old  man,  he'll  go  home.  That's 
all  right.  Whatever  you  say  will^-0.  Billy  the 


FATHER    AND   SON  289 

Beast  can't  spend  a  cent  of  his  wages  at 
Swamp's  End  if  you  say  the  word." 

"  Hold  on,  pop ! " 

"  What's  the  matter  ?  " 

"That's  no  good,  pop.     You  see " 

"  But  I  want  to  help  you." 

"You  can't,  pop.     You're  on  the  other  side." 

"  Oh,  look  here,  now,  old  fellow  !  What  side 
am  I  on  ? " 

"  The  other,  pop.  And  the  best  thing  you  can 
do  is  to  play  the  game.  We  want  to  get  Billy 
through,  all  right,  and  Jack  is  going  to  ;  but  we 
want  to  see  Billy  help  himself.  That's  what  Jack 
says.  All  you  have  to  do,  pop,  is  to  give  Billy 
a  decent  show.  You  can't  get  his  money,  this 
time.  Billy's  bound  to  go  through,  pop.  And 
if  he  gets  through  without  any  help " 

"  Donnie,  boy ! 

"Yes,  father?" 

"  Has  it  come  to  this  between  you  and  me : 
that  you're  on  one  side  and  I'm  on  the  other?" 

"Why,  father " 

"  Has  it  come  to  this?" 

"  Why,  of  course,  father ! "  Donnie  replied,  in 
pain.  "  You  see " 

"That's  all,  boy." 

"Father " 

"No,  no!  That's  all  right,  boy.  And  look 
here,  old  man :  I'll  play  fair,  but  I'll  play  hard. 
Watch  out  for  me ! " 


290  FATHER   AND   SON 

"All  right,  father,"  Donnie  replied,  con- 
fidently ;  "  but  we'll  lick  the  life  out  of  you." 

Pale  Peter  sighed. 

"Yes,  sir!"  the  boy  reiterated. 

"  Donnie,"  said  Pale  Peter,  gravely,  "  you 
don't  seem  to  care  very  much  about  your  father 
any  more." 

"  Father ! "  Donnie  cried,  in  horror. 

"  Not  much,  boy." 

Donald  threw  himself  into  his  father's  arms. 

When  the  boy  had  gone,  Pale  Peter  had  no 
relief  from  his  mood.  No  ease  at  all,  indeed  1 
Pale  Peter  was  not  a  fool.  He  understood 
precisely  what  change  had  occurred  within  his 
young  son.  He  had,  moreover,  observed  it 
coming,  observed  its  gradual  appearance  and 
growth :  there  had  been  reproachful  glances 
enough,  God  knew !  in  these  last  months  to 
make  the  thing  plain  to  the  veriest  dullard. 
Donnie' s  attitude  towards  the  business  had 
changed ;  whereas,  sitting  cross-legged  on 
Charlie  the  Infidel's  bar,  he  had  once  watched 
with  amusement  the  knavery  practiced  there,  he 
now  turned  in  resentment  from  every  trick  of 
the  trade.  Pale  Peter  was  perfectly  cognizant  of 
this  ;  but  he  had  not  fancied  that  the  change  had 
gone  so  far — that  it  was  a  fixed  and  growing 
thing — that  the  boy  had  already  taken  sides 
against  him.  Sides  against  him  ?  Sides  against 


FATHER    AND    SON  291 

his  own  father  ?  It  was  incredible  !  But  it  was 
true ;  and  Pale  Peter  was  neither  fool  enough 
to  deny  it,  nor  fool  enough  to  be  bewildered  in 
respect  to  what  had  caused  the  change  in  the 
boy.  John  Fairmeadow  was  the  source  of  it  all. 
John  Fairmeadow — John  Fairmeadow's  preach- 
ing and  practice  in  the  world  of  the  woods — 
John  Fairmeadow's  manly  way  and  uplifted 
soul.  Whatever  Pale  Peter  might  think  of  the 
value  of  these  kindly  services  to  the  lumber- 
jacks to  whose  interests  they  were  devoted,  he 
was  not  fool  enough  to  discover  in  John  Fair- 
meadow  a  misguided,  an  ignorant,  a  selfish  or  a 
visionary  man.  Not  by  any  means  !  Pale  Peter 
was  no  fool. 

But  — 

"  Damn  Jack,  anyhow  !  "  he  grumbled.  "  I 
wish  to  God  he'd  never  come  here  !  " 

But  did  Pale  Peter  wish  that  John  Fairmeadow 
had  never  chanced  upon  Swamp's  End?  Not 
at  all !  Pale  Peter  was  sensible  of  the  advantage 
he  had  gained  for  his  son  in  John  Fairmeadow's 
presence.  And  Fairmeadow  had  played  fair  in 
the  game  he  had  undertaken — in  the  game 
which,  indeed,  he  had  been  challenged  to  under- 
take. Pale  Peter  was  perfectly  well  aware  of  it. 
Pale  Peter  had  taken  pains  to  discover  John  Fair- 
meadow's  methods;  and  he  had  learned  that 
however  much  John  Fairmeadow  might  have 
desired  to  fashion  the  boy's  attitude  towards  evil 


292  FATHER    AND   SON 

in  the  world,  he  had  not  sought  to  lay  violent 
hands  on  the  boy's  love  for  his  father.  But  there 
had  been  a  change  in  that  affection.  If  not  John 
Fairmeadow's  fault,  whose  fault  was  it  ?  Not  the 
boy's,  to  be  sure  ;  the  boy  was  loyal  to  the  core, 
and  was  not  aware,  as  yet,  that  his  filial  regard 
for  his  father  was  endangered.  It  was  the  fault 
of  the  business,  Pale  Peter  determined.  The  boy 
had  grown  faster  than  his  father  had  known — 
had  been  too  apt  at  acquiring  the  ideals  John 
Fairmeadow  had  continuously  exposed  to  his 
view.  Pale  Peter  had  been  caught  napping. 
But  Pale  Peter  would  wake  up  ;  he  would  nap 
no  longer — he  would  act,  and  that  without  un- 
due delay,  to  preserve  for  himself  what  measure  of 
his  son's  respect  he  could  manage  to  keep.  He 
had  fortune  enough  for  them  both,  at  any  rate ; 
they  could  go  East  in  comfort,  and  Pale  Peter, 
at  ease,  could  watch  the  growth  of  his  son  in  all 
manly  qualities,  and  he  would  not  fail  to  thank 
John  Fairmeadow,  in  the  meantime,  for  the  fine 
progress  his  son  had  made.  The  boy  would  for- 
get Swamp's  End,  of  course ;  the  boy  was  only  a 
child,  and  — 

But  — 

"  I  wonder,"  Pale  Peter  mused,  "  if  he  arc// for- 
get I" 

Donald  must  forget ;  and  being  only  a  child, 
of  course,  he  — 

But  — 


FATHER   AND   SON  293 

"  I  wonder  1 "  Pale  Peter  mused. 

Notwithstanding  the  fine  visions  he  summoned 
from  the  future  to  comfort  him,  there  remained 
with  Pale  Peter  of  the  Red  Elephant  an  aching 
sense  of  separation  from  his  son. 

It  was  yet  early  when  the  boy  entered  the 
easy-chaired  little  office  at  the  end  of  the  bar  to 
say  good-night  to  his  father. 

"  Good-night,  pop,"  said  he,  with  lack  interest. 

"  What !  "  his  father  ejaculated.  "  As  early  as 
this  ?  " 

"  I'm  tired." 

"  Why,  kid,  it's  only " 

"  I  know,  pop,  but  I'm  awful  tired,  and  I  want 
to  go  to  bed." 

>  Pale  Peter  took  the  boy  on  his  knee.  "  Look 
here,  son,"  said  he;  "what's  the  matter  with 
you?" 

"  Nothing." 

"  Nothing  at  all  ?  " 

"  I'm  a  little  bit  tired,  pop ;  that's  all." 

Pale  Peter  mused  for  a  little,  looking,  the 
while,  into  the  black,  windy  street,  and  upon  the 
lights  of  the  rival  Cafe  of  Egyptian  Delights, 
blazing  across  the  way. 

"  Donnie  !  "  said  he. 

"Yes,  father?" 

"Somehow,  boy,"  Pale  Peter  went  on,  "  you're 
not  very  happy  any  more.  Be  frank  with  your 


294  FATHER    AND   SON 

father,  boy.  Tell  him  what's  the  matter.  He'll 
fix  it,  boy  ;  whatever  it  is,  he'll  fix  it." 

Donnie  made  no  answer. 

"  Come,  son  !  " 

"  Why,  pop,"  Donnie  exclaimed,  sitting  up,  his 
eyes  looking  straight  into  his  father's,  and  with 
the  light  of  accusation  blazing  in  them,  "you 
see " 

"Well?" 

"Oh,  I  can't  tell  you!" 

"  What's  the  matter,  boy  ?  " 

"  Nothing  1  There's  nothing  the  matter! 
Nothing!  Nothing!  I'm  tired.  That's  all, 
pop." 

"  What  do  you  want  me  to  do  ?  " 

"  Nothing." 

There  was  silence,  then,  for  a  time,  between 
the  two.  The  gale  waxed  in  strength.  It  was 
deep  night — deep  and  terrible  with  darkness — 
with  deeper  night  impending.  Pale  Peter,  look- 
ing out  from  his  easy  chair  into  the  cold  swirl  of 
the  world,  was  troubled  ;  and  being  troubled — 
being  apprehensive  of  that  which  he  could  not 
see — he  slipped  a  fatherly  arm  about  his  child, 
than  whom,  in  all  the  world,  there  was  nobody 
else  to  cling  to  and  protect.  Deep  night  outside, 
indeed,  cruel  with  frost  and  wind  and  darkness  1 
Deeper  night  impending ! 

"  Donnie !  "  Pale  Peter  whispered. 

"Yes,  father?" 


FATHER    AND    SON  295 

"  I  know  what's  the  matter,  boy  ;  and  I'm  go- 
ing to  fix  it,  too." 

"Fix  what?"  Donnie  dully  asked. 

"  Never  mind,  boy  1  But  I'm  going  to  fix  it. 
And  you'll  be  glad — when  I've  done  what  you 
want  me  to  do.  I'll  not  tell  you,  Donnie.  I'll 
show  you  !  And  you'll  be  glad." 

"  That's  good." 

Donnie  began  feverishly  to  move  in  his  father's 
arms.  Pale  Peter  could  not  quiet  him.  The  boy 
was  hot  and  restless  and  ill  at  ease.  The  trail 
from  the  Cant-hook  had  evidently  been  too  much 
for  him.  A  rest  would  do  him  good — a  long,  sound 
sleep.  And  a  long,  sound  sleep  he  should  have  ! 

Ay,  indeed ! 

"Time  for  bed,  Donnie,"  said  Pale  Peter. 

Donnie  yawned. 

"  Off  you  go,  boy ! " 

"Yep." 

"  You're  tired,  kid,"  Pale  Peter  laughed. 

"Yep,  pop,"  said  Donnie,  returning  the  laugh. 
"  I'm  awful  tired.  Good-night,  pop." 

"  Good-night." 

The  boy  moved  away — but  halted  and  turned 
— and  came  again. 

"  We're  all  right,  aren't  we,  boy  ?  "  Pale  Peter 
rallied  him,  smiling. 

"  You  bet  we  are ! " 

"  We're  going  to  be  on  the  same  side,  after 
this,  aren't  we?" 


296  FATHER.    AND   SON 

"You  bet  we  are,  pop  I" 

"  You  bet  we  are  1 " 

Donnie  stood  undecided. 

"Well?"  his  father  asked. 

"Anybody  looking,  pop?" 

"No." 

Donnie  brushed  his  lips  against  his  father's 
cheek.  "Just  like  it  used  to  be,"  said  he,  hap- 
pily, "  when  I  was  only  a  kid." 

"  Just  like  it  used  to  be,"  said  Pale  Peter,  with 
feeling,  "  thank  God  !  " 

"Good-night,  pop." 

"  Good-night." 

"  I'm  awful  tired,"  Donnie  yawned. 

It  occurred  to  Pale  Peter,  all  at  once — this  was 
late  in  the  night — that  the  boy  was  ill.  "  Good 
God!"  thought  he;  "what  if  I  should  lose  him?" 
The  boy  was  flushed — but  sleeping  peacefully. 
Pale  Peter  made  haste  to  find  out.  "  Oh,  he's 
all  right,"  Pale  Peter  thought.  "  I — I — I  guess 
I'm — a  little  bit  out  of  sorts  myself."  He  went 
back  to  the  bar ;  but  he  could  not  rid  himself  of 
the  fear  that  haunted  him — nor  could  he  be  rid 
of  the  insistent  question  — 

"  Good  God  !     What  if  I  should  lose  him  ?  " 


XXIX 

A    MIRACLE   AT  PALE   PETER'S 

IT  blew  high  and  ghastly  cold  on  Wednes- 
day. Pale  Peter's  Donald  was  within  doors 
all  that  day.  He  was  somewhat  recovered, 
now,  it  seemed,  from  the  feverish  state  of  his  ar- 
rival from  the  Cant-hook  cutting.  The  wind 
was  in  the  northwest — wildly  blowing  and  corn- 
passionless.  It  came  swishing  over  the  pines 
and  raised  a  whirling  dust  of  frosty  snow  in  the 
clearing  of  Swamp's  End.  It  rattled  the  win- 
dows of  Pale  Peter's  place ;  it  fairly  took  the 
ramshackle  long  building  in  both  hands  and  by 
the  throat  and  shook  the  teeth  of  it  where  it 
stood.  There  was  a  hazy  moon  after  the  early 
night.  Snow  came  presently :  a  cloud  of  hard 
flakes,  pointed  like  a  hundred  needles.  They 
had  a  roaring  fire  in  the  bar.  The  lamps  were 
all  trimmed,  too,  and  turned  high.  It  was  light 
and  warm.  Warm,  yellow  light  filled  the  big 
room,  and,  where  the  red  curtains  were  drawn 
apart,  fell  invitingly  through  the  frosted  windows 
into  the  storm.  The  bar  was  crowded  and  up- 
roarious. A  roistering  fellowship !  Colton's 
crew  was  in  from  the  Kettle  Camps — paid  off 

297 


298       A    MIRACLE   at   PALE   PETER'S 

and  spending.  Pale  Peter  said  that  no  man 
must  be  turned  out-of-doors  that  night — not  so 
much  as  a  penniless  man. 

"  Let  'em  sleep  where  they  fall,"  said  he,  in 
the  generous  way  for  which  he  was  praised  in 
the  woods.  " Put  'em  in  the  snake-room.  Full? 
Well,  if  they  get  in  the  way  haul  'em  back  from 
the  bar.  Anyhow,"  said  he,  "  nobody's  going 
to  be  turned  out  of  my  place  on  a  night  like 
this." 

Off  went  Pale  Peter — not  in  the  best  of  hu- 
mour, it  seemed — to  his  little  office  at  the  end  of 
the  bar,  there  to  read  and  smoke. 

When  John  Fairmeadow  entered  the  office, 
fresh  from  the  trail,  he  threw  off  his  pack  and 
greatcoat  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  had  come 
a  long  road  in  haste  and  anxiety. 

"  I'm  tired,"  said  he. 

"  Come  far,  Jack?  "  the  saloon-keeper  asked. 

41  No,  Peter,"  the  parson  sighed ;  "  only  from 
Three  Forks.  I  preached  there  after  supper." 

"From  where f"  Pale  Peter  ejaculated. 

"Three  Forks,  Peter." 

Pale  Peter,  his  brows  fallen  in  a  pitying  frown, 
stared  at  the  ash  of  his  cigar.  "  Jack,"  said  he, 
looking  up  reproachfully,  "  what  did  you  do  a 
fool  thing  like  that  for  on  a  night  like  this  ?  " 

"  I'm  on  the  job,  Peter." 

"On  a  night  like  this  1" 


A    MIRACLE   at   PALE   PETER'S       299 

"  I'm  on  the  job,  Peter." 

"Is  Billy  the  Beast  the  man  you're  after, 
Jack?" 

The  parson  laughed  a  little.  "  Billy  the 
Beast,"  he  sighed,  "is  the  man.  He's  coming 
out  from  the  Cant-hook  to-night.  Nine  o'clock, 
he  said.  I'm  to  meet  him  here.  He's  going 
home  to-night,  Peter.  He's  going  home — going 
home,  Peter,  on  the  late  east-bound." 

"  Going  home  ?"  Pale  Peter  scoffed. 

"  Going  home,"  said  the  parson. 

"  Tsch,  tsch,  tsch  ! "  went  Pale  Peter,  his  face 
all  screwed  with  pain  and  pity  in  the  parson's 
behalf.  "  Don't  you  know  any  better  than  that, 
Jack?" 

"  He's  going  home,"  John  Fairmeadow  reso- 
lutely repeated. 

Donald  came  in. 

"  Hello,  boy  !  "  Fairmeadow  greeted  the  lad. 

"'Lo,  Jack,"  said  the  boy.  "No  sign  of  him 
yet.  I've  been  watching." 

"  He'll  come,  all  right,  Donnie." 

"  Tsch,  tsch,  tsch  ! "  went  Pale  Peter. 

"I'm  tired  out,"  said  the  parson,  sighing 
again.  "  I'm  all  tired  out." 

He  began  to  hum : 

"  The  Lord's  my  Shepherd,  I'll  not  want. 

He  makes  me  down  to  lie 
In  pastures  green.     He  leadeth  me 
The  quiet  waters  by." 


A    MIRACLE  at   PALE   PETER'S 

There  was  a  clap  of  ugly  laughter  from  the 
bar. 

"The  Horse  Doctor's  in  from  Bottle  River, 
eh  ?  "  Fairmeadow  commented. 

Charlie  the  Infidel  came  running  down  the 
bar. 

"  What's  yourn,  gents?"  they  heard  him  say, 
on  the  other  side  of  the  red  curtain. 

Down  came  bottle  and  glasses. 

Fairmeadow  softly  hummed — accompanied  by 
a  rush  of  the  gale  — 


"  My  soul  He  doth  restore  again  ; 

And  me  to  walk  doth  make 
Within  the  paths  of  righteousness, 
Ev'n  for  His  own  Name's  sake." 


Three  men  were  mouthing  ribaldry  beyond 
the  curtain. 

Donald  moved  away. 

"  Too  much  for  you,  Donnie  ?  "  the  parson  in- 
quired, looking  up. 

The  boy  flushed. 

"  Decent  little  cuss  ! "  Pale  Peter  muttered, 
fondly,  his  eyes  glistening  with  affection. 

"  Peter,"  the  parson  began,  angrily,  "  if  you 
weren't " 

"  Go  ahead,  Jack." 

"  If  you  weren't  such  a  detestable  beast," 
Fairmeadow  exploded,  "  you  might  be 


A    MIRACLE   at   PALE   PETER'S       301 

But,  pshaw  !  "  he  broke  off ;  "  we've  gone  over 
all  that  before." 

Pale  Peter  smiled. 

The  parson  went  to  humming  again  : 


"  Yea,  though  I  walk  in  Death's  dark  vale, 

Yet  will  I  fear  none  ill : 
For  Thou  art  with  me ;  and  Thy  rod 
And  staff  me  comfort  still." 


"  Billy  the  Beast  1 "  Pale  Peter  muttered.  "  All 
damned  foolishness ! " 

"  And  due  now,"  said  Fairmeadow. 

"  Small  hope  for  the  brute  !  "  Peter  growled. 

"  Peter,"  said  Fairmeadow,  presendy,  "  I'm 
going  to  pray." 

Pale  Peter  jumped  out  of  his  chair. 

"You  won't  mind,  will  you?"  Fairmeadow 
apologized.  "  It  won't  do  any  harm." 

"  Pray  1 "  Pale  Peter  gasped.     "  Here  ?" 

There  was  the  beginning  of  a  brawl  in  the 
bar :  a  blow  had  been  struck. 

"  I  won't  be  a  minute,"  said  Fairmeadow. 

"What!"  the  outraged  saloon-keeper  ejacu- 
lated. 

"Just  a  minute  or  two,"  Fairmeadow  ex- 
plained. "I  can't  very  well  go  away,  Peter," 
he  added  ;  "  and  I  want  to  ask  God  once  more 
— just  once  more — to  let  Billy  the  Beast  go  home 
clean.  I  think  He'll  do  it,  Peter.  I  think  He's 


302       A    MIRACLE   at   PALE   PETER'S 

going  to  do  it — this  time.  Billy  the  Beast,  you 
see,  has  been  praying,  too." 

There  was  a  howl  of  execration  from  the  bar. 
The  brawl  was  on  in  earnest.  The  howl  had  fol- 
lowed the  sound  of  a  brutal  blow. 

Charlie  the  Infidel  roared  for  order. 

"  For  God's  sake,  Jack,"  Pale  Peter  implored, 
"  don't  do  that  thing  here  !  " 

Fairmeadow  knelt. 

"  Get  up,  you  fool ! "  Pale  Peter  cried,  in  a 
passion. 

There  was  an  outburst  of  laughter  in  the  bar. 
It  was  all  mixed  with  wild  oaths  and  cries  for 
room. 

"Jack!" 

Fairmeadow  prayed  on — his  gentle  face  lifted. 
He  was  much  troubled  in  spirit,  it  seemed. 

"  Don't,  Jack  !  "  Pale  Peter  pleaded.  "  Don't 
do  that  here.  I  can't  stand  it.  Go  outside  and 
do  it." 

Pale  Peter  shook  the  oblivious  parson  by  the 
shoulder. 

The  sounds  from  beyond  the  red  curtain  indi- 
cated that  Charlie  the  Infidel  had  bounded  over 
the  bar  and  was  striking  out  in  the  thick  of  the 
scuffle. 

"  Get  up ! "  Pale  Peter  begged. 

The  bar  roared  in  anger  for  fair  play 

"  Somebody'll  see  you,  you  fool !  "  Pale  Peter 
raged. 


A    MIRACLE  at   PALE   PETER'S       303 

Fairmeadow  rose. 

"  What  did  you  want  to  do  a  thing  like  that 
for  ?  "  Peter  demanded. 

"  What's  the  matter  ?  "  the  dumbfounded  Fair- 
meadow  replied. 

"  Matter  ?  "  Pale  Peter  scolded.  "  Have  you 
lost  your  sense  of  decency  ?  Doing  a  thing  like 
that — here  /  " 

"Why  not,  Peter?" 

"  For  shame  ! " 

"  It's  a  good  place,  Peter.  Why  not  do  it 
here  ?  And  I  feel  better " 

Donald,  who  had  been  peeking  in  upon  the 
barroom  affray,  suddenly  withdrew  from  the  red 
curtain,  and  whispered : 

"  Here's  your  man,  Jack !  " 

"  God  help  him  !  "  said  the  parson. 

Pale  Peter  made  haste  to  the  bar  to  put  an  end 
to  the  brawl. 

Pale  Peter's  bar  was  then  no  mild  and  churchly 
place — no  tender  refuge  from  the  snowy  night 
for  a  man  in  trouble  of  his  soul.  It  was  filled 
with  smoke  and  sweaty  steam,  and  with  the  hot, 
nauseating  breath  of  liquor.  It  was  foully  hot — 
the  air  all  stale  and  evil.  There  was  blasphe- 
mous tumult,  too — oaths  and  maudlin  sobs, 
growling  imprecations,  the  coughing  and  spit- 
ting of  the  hurt,  roars  for  whiskey,  ribald  songs, 
and  the  loud,  vacant  laughter  of  men  gone  far 


304       A    MIRACLE   at   PALE   PETERS 

in  drink.  The  drunken  sleepers,  helpless  among 
the  moving  feet,  were  mercilessly  trampled  in 
the  confusion.  Their  faces  were  stepped  on  and 
spurned.  The  fight  had  fallen  to  the  floor.  Red 
McDonald  and  Cookee  Charlie  from  the  Kettle 
Camps — at  each  other's  throats  like  dogs — were 
kicked  and  trampled  and  forgotten,  sprawling  in 
the  thick  of  the  struggling  crowd  above.  A  man 
came  spinning  from  the  crowd  and  began  to 
cough  and  to  spit  out  his  teeth.  Another  was 
flinging  the  blood  from  his  nose  and  beard.  Both 
laughed — a  gleeful  bellow.  Little  Tommy  Bagg, 
a  boy  of  Colton's  crew,  who  had  been  thrown 
against  the  red  stove,  nursed  a  sizzling  wound 
in  a  corner  :  the  pain  had  sobered  the  child  ;  he 
was  crying  bitterly.  And  into  the  press  went 
Pale  Peter.  He  struck  with  the  bartender — hard 
and  promiscuously.  Both  roared,  of  course,  all 
the  time.  And  presently  (as  these  affairs  will) 
the  fighting  abated,  halted,  dissolved  in  laughter 
and  a  drunken  mutual  admiration ;  and  there 
"was  a  loud  lining-up  at  the  bar.  The  long, 
sweating,  bloody,  open-mouthed,  hairy  line, 
staggering  and  pushing,  beat  on  the  bar  like  a 
pack  of  larking  schoolboys,  yelling  for  liquor  in 
rhythm  with  the  drumming. 

Billy  the  Beast  came  in — all  snow  and  icicles. 
It  had  come  to  Swamp's  End  from  the  Cant- 
hook  cutting  that  he  was  gone  mad :  he  had 


A    MIRACLE   at   PALE    PETER'S       305 

been  caught  praying  (they  said) ;  but  he  was 
chiefly  engaged  in  blaspheming  God  from  the 
new-made  stumps  of  the  works,  and  was  bound 
out  to  Swamp's  End  on  Wednesday  night  with 
two  hundred  dollars  in  his  pocket  to  raise  hell. 
Camp  Three  had  awaited  a  heavenly  visitation 
of  calamity  in  castigation  of  the  Beast's  sins.  It 
seemed,  now,  however,  that  Billy  the  Beast  must 
be  desperately  ill :  he  licked  his  dry  lips  like  the 
sick,  and  his  eyes,  all  fevered  and  red,  had  gone 
far  back  in  his  head.  He  was  ghastly  to  look 
upon  :  gone  white  and  lean  and  shaking.  From 
the  noise  and  pawing  of  his  welcome  he  seemed 
to  be  detached.  As  he  went  elbowing  towards 
the  bar  he  was  like  a  soul  drawn  unwillingly 
apart  from  the  merry  license  of  the  place  and 
standing  all  alone.  An  ague  shook  him  ;  he 
stumbled,  his  great  hulk  reeled.  He  coughed 
and  shivered  with  disgust.  This  spent,  he  went 
on  again,  with  a  sheepish  sort  of  grin  and  a 
sheepish  wipe  of  his  icy  beard.  When  he  was 
got  a  little  beyond  the  hanging-lamp — a  re- 
flector threw  down  a  shower  of  yellow  light — his 
eyes,  uneasy  and  glittering,  seemed  to  be  with- 
drawn to  their  deepest  places.  They  were  like 
flashes  of  fire  in  a  pool  of  shadows.  One 
could  not  forget  his  eyes — the  blood-red  col- 
our, the  dry  sparkle,  the  uneasy  shifting  of 
them.  And  he  was  licking  his  lips  all  the 
time.  A  dry  tongue  was  forever  slipping  into 


306       A    MIRACLE   at   PALE   PETER'S 

his  thawing  moustache  to  gather  moisture  for 
dry  lips. 

Billy  the  Beast  came  to  the  bar  when  the  press 
had  drunk  and  in  some  part  withdrawn. 

"  What's  yourn,  Billy?" 

"  Mine,  Charlie  ?  "  Billy  drawled.  He  sighed 
sharply — and  then  absently  wiped  his  mouth. 

Charlie  leaned  over,  alert  and  hurried. 

Billy  picked  an  icicle  from  his  beard.  "I 
don't  know  as  I  just  quite  know,  Charlie,"  said 
he,  in  a  gentle  contemplation  of  the  problem. 
He  thoughtfully  dropped  the  icicle.  "  Ye  see," 
he  sighed,  "  I  haven't  made  up  my  mind  yet  just 
quite  what  I  will  begin  on." 

By  the  end  of  this  Charlie  was  elsewhere. 

"  I  reckon,"  Billy  drawled,  when  Charlie  had 
bounded  back  for  his  order,  "that  it  might  's 
well  as  not  be  gin."  He  sighed  again.  "  Gin,  I 
reckon,"  he  repeated,  softly,  "  t'  begin  on." 

Down  went  the  white  bottle  on  the  bar. 

"  Well,  no,"  said  Billy,  in  some  mild  agitation 
of  doubt ;  "  no,  Charlie.  A  whiskey,"  he  recon- 
sidered. "  A  ver-ree  sma-a-a-al  glass  o'  whiskey." 

"Whiskey,  Billy?" 

"Well,  I  reckon,"  Billy  drawled.  "A  lee-ee- 
eetle  drop  o'  whiskey." 

The  Infidel  reached  for  the  bottle. 

"  Stand  back  there,  boys ! "  John  Fairmeadow 
shouted  from  the  threshold.  He  came  bustling 
in.  And  he  was  in  no  trance  of  prayer  and 


A    MIRACLE   at   PALE   PETER'S       307 

adoration,  now,  you  may  believe,  but  in  palpi- 
tating indignation,  and  with  a  living  and  bellig- 
erent intention.  "  Stand  back ! "  he  roared. 
"  Stand  back  from  the  bar !  Back  to  the  wall, 
boys!  Give  this  man  a  show,  won't  you?" 
They  gave  John  Fairmeadow  himself  a  roaring 
welcome,  of  course.  It  was  the  custom.  But  he 
would  have  none  of  it.  "  Stand  back  ! "  he  kept 
crying,  at  the  top  of  his  big  voice.  "  Get  back 
to  the  wall  I  Give  this  man  a  show  1  God 
knows,  he'll  need  it ! "  The  good-natured, 
roistering  crowd,  nosing  a  fight  of  some  mys- 
terious description,  fell  away  from  the  bar  in 
boisterous  excitement.  It  was  the  custom,  now- 
adays, at  any  rate,  to  be  obedient  to  John  Fair- 
meadow's  whims.  Presently  there  was  a  wide 
semicircle,  within  which  lay  four  snoring  sots 
from  the  Kettle  Camps,  but  was  no  other  man, 
except  one  man.  In  the  focus,  Billy  the  Beast 
leaned  nervously  against  the  bar,  with  Charlie 
the  Infidel  broadly  expectant  behind.  The  par- 
son, a  thorough  showman,  it  seemed — now  in  a 
sweating  flush  of  anxiety — still  beat  the  crowd  to 
the  wall.  "  If  you  can't  see,  boys,"  he  shouted, 
"  stand  on  the  chairs.  Everybody  '11  be  able  to 
see  if  you  just  keep  back.  Now,  for  God's  sake, 
boys,"  he  concluded,  "  give  us  a  show !  Stay 
right  where  you  are — and  keep  quiet" 

The   parson  lifted  his  hand.     Silence  obedi- 
ently came. 


,308        A    MIRACLE   at   PALE    PETER'S 

"  How — h-h-how  ye  been,  parson  ?  "  Billy  the 
Beast  stuttered.  His  voice  rang  conspicuous. 
It  alarmed  him.  He  fidgeted  and  grinned  in 
stage-fright.  "  Ye  been — ye  been — sort  o'  perky, 
eh?" 

The  parson  slapped  a  silver  dollar  on  the  bar. 

"  What's  yourn  ?  "  said  Charlie,  with  a  vastly 
humorous  wink. 

A  general  laugh  was  stifled. 

"  Charlie,"  said  the  parson,  gravely,  indicating 
Billy  the  Beast  in  a  contemptuous  wave  and 
with  a  contemptuous  jerk  of  the  head,  "  give  this 
man  a  drink  of  whiskey." 

The  bartender  expostulated. 

"That's  all  right,  Charlie,"  Fairmeadow  re- 
plied. "  Give  this  man  a  drink  of  whiskey." 

There  was  a  murmur  of  expostulation  from  the 
crowd  of  lumber-jacks  against  the  wall.  Here, 
surely,  was  no  proper  employment  for  a  minis- 
ter! 

"  That's  all  right,  boys,"  Fairmeadow  insisted. 

Billy  the  Beast  began  to  stutter  expostulation. 

"  Give  this  man  a  drink  of  whiskey ! "  Fair- 
meadow  roared. 

Charlie  put  down  bottle  and  glass. 

"  Now,"  said  the  parson,  looking  directly  into 
the  red  eyes  of  the  Beast,  "drink  it  if  you're 
able.  And  may  God  Almighty  have  mercy  on 
your  soul ! " 

The  room  was  breathless. 


•  A    MIRACLE   at   PALE    PETER'S       309 

Billy  the  Beast  thoughtfully  poured  out  the  red 
liquor. 

"  You  can't  drink  it ! "  said  the  desperate  par- 
son. 

Billy  lifted  the  glass. 

"You're  not  able  1"  the  parson  taunted. 

Billy  stepped  away  from  the  bar  with  the 
liquor  in  his  hand.  He  smelled  of  it — smacked 
his  lips  in  pretense  of  delight — held  it  high  and 
triumphantly — spoke  a  blasphemous  toast,  every 
evil  syllable  of  which  was  loud  as  thunder  in  that, 
quiet  room.  Nobody  smiled.  Jie  whistled  a 
jaunty  bar  or  two.  He  did  a  step — a  careless 
little  shuffle  with  a  coquettish  flirt  of  the  foot  for 
period.  But  nobody  laughed.  It  was  disquiet- 
ing. He  began  to  sing ;  it  was  a  low  ribaldry, 
mixed  with  black  profanity,  for  which  he  was 
famous.  Nobody  encouraged  him.  He  sang  a 
bit,  shuffled  a  bit,  stared  about,  grinning,  and 
put  the  glass  to  his  nose.  Meantime  he  had 
gone  pale  and  weak.  He  fell  back  to  the  bar,  in 
a  moment,  and  put  down  the  glass,  but  held  it 
tight,  all  the  time,  in  his  right  hand.  Once  he 
raised  it.  His  hand  halted  in  mid-air ;  and  he 
laughed  vacantly — and  once  more  put  down  the 
glass.  It  rang  on  the  bar  as  if  his  arm  had 
fallen.  Liquor  splashed  out ;  but  Billy  held  the 
glass  in  a  close  grip.  And  he  glanced,  then,  like 
a  beaten  dog,  towards  John  Fairmeadow.  It 
was  a  terrified  entreaty  for  mercy. 


)io       A    MIRACLE   at   PALE    PETER'S 

"  Boys,"  Fairmeadow  exclaimed,  triumphantly, 
"  he  can't  drink  it ! " 
Nor  could  he. 

"  My  God,  boys  !  "  Billy  the  Beast  whimpered, 
breaking  in  upon  the  silence,  "  I  can't  lift  my 
arm."  He  was  staring  horrified  at  his  right 
hand.  "  I  can't  lift  it ! "  he  moaned.  "  My  God, 
boys,  I  carit  lift  my  own  arm  !  " 

There  was  an  uproar  of  profane  ejaculation. 

"What's  the  matter  with  me,  boys?"  Billy 
whimpered.  "Why  can't  I  lift  my  own  arm?" 

The  room  was  still. 

"  Ain't  nobody  goin'  t'  help  me  ? "  Billy  com- 
plained. 

Nobody  moved. 

"Ain't  I  got  no  friends  here?"  Billy  the 
Beast  lifted  up  his  face.  It  may  be  he  fancied 
that  the  ceiling  opened  to  his  appealing  gaze.  He 
raised  his  left  hand  beseechingly.  "  God,  be  mer- 
ciful to  me,  a  sinner ! "  he  whispered.  He  waited. 
"  God,  be  merciful  to  me,  a  sinner  1 "  he  repeated. 

Then  in  Pale  Peter's  barroom  a  miracle  was 
worked. 

Pale  Peter  slipped  an  arm  around  his  son. 
Donald  caught  his  hand.  "Look,  lookl"  said 
Peter.  The  boy  saw  it.  They  all  saw  it.  The 
change  was  not  instantaneous.  There  was  a 
momentary  interval  through  which  it  progressed. 


A    MIRACLE   at   PALE   PETER'S       311 

A  hand  might  have  gone  over  the  man  from 
head  to  foot.  Of  course  they  saw  no  miraculous 
fingers  touch  him :  they  had  no  vision  at  all — nor 
any  feeling  of  a  strange  spiritual  Presence.  But 
what  was  bestial  vanished  from  the  Beast's 
countenance.  They  beheld  a  new  face.  They 
had  not  been  more  amazed  to  see  the  rags  he 
wore  lying  in  a  heap  with  the  shrivelled  horror 
of  his  old  personality  on  Pale  Peter's  barroom 
floor.  He  remained  a  moment  in  a  daze  of  be- 
wilderment. "  Boys,"  he  muttered,  "  something's 
happened  to  me.  What's  the  matter?"  He 
laughed  then;  and  the  laugh  was  so  charged 
with  youth  and  joy — so  like  a  boy's  clean  glee — 
that  he  laughed  again,  as  though  to  delight  in 
the  exercise.  "  I'm  saved,  boys,"  said  he.  "  Yes, 
I  am,  boys.  Why,  boys,  I'm — I'm — I'm  saved. 
That's  what's  the  matter  with  me.  I've  been — 
I've  been — born  again.  I'm  clean.  This  is  what 
I've  wanted  t'  be.  This  is  what  I've  prayed  for 
all  this  winter.  I'm  clean,  I  tell  ye — I'm  clean  I " 
He  suffered,  now,  some  agitation — some  hysteria 
of  joy,  perhaps.  Presently  his  eye  fell  on  the 
glass  of  liquor  in  his  hand.  He  stared  at  it  in 
comical  amazement  (which,  however,  did  not 
move  any  one  to  laughter).  "Why,"  he  ex- 
claimed, heartily,  "  I  don't  want  this ! "  and 
pushed  it  away  with  a  light  laugh. 

They  observed    that    he    had    forgotten  the 
paralysis  of  his  arm. 


A    MIRACLE   at   PALE   PETER'S 

"  I'm  just  as  hungry  as  I  can  be,"  said  he.  "  I 
say,  old  man  " — to  the  parson — "  what  time  is 
it?" 

Fairmeadow  warned  him. 

"Pshaw!"  said  Billy,  boyishly.  "Wish  I 
could  have  a  snack.  I  never  was  so  hungry. 
But  come  on,  old  man,"  he  went  on,  anxiously, 
"  or  we'll  lose  that  train.  So  long,  boys ! "  he 
called  to  the  gaping  crowd.  "  I'm  sorry  I  can't 
stay.  But,  ye  see,  I'm  goin'  home.  Good-bye, 
boys.  I'll  see  ye  again  soon.  Good-bye.  God 
bless  ye,  every  one ! "  He  paused  on  the 
threshold  to  wave  his  hand.  "  Ye  see,"  said  he, 
his  face  shining,  "there's  a  dear  little  woman 
there,  an'  she's  sent  for  me,  an' — an' — I  jus'  got 
t'  go!" 

Fairmeadow  and  the  Beast  went  out  together. 

"  Boys,"  said  Pale  Peter,  breaking  the  dumb- 
founded silence,  "  the  drinks  are  on  the  house ! " 

There  was  a  rush  for  the  bar. 


XXX 

THE  END  OF  THE  GAME 

WHEN  Billy  the  Beast,  in  the  keeping 
of  John  Fairmeadow,  vanished  forever 
from  the  bar  of  the  Red  Elephant  in 
this  extraordinary  fashion,  Pale  Peter,  followed 
by   Donald,   passed    astounded    into  the   easy- 
chaired   little   office,   and   there,   having  drawn 
the  red  curtains,  comfortably  disposed  his  well- 
groomed  person  and  fell  to  brooding. 

"  You  lose,  pop,"  the  boy  laughed. 

Pale  Peter  looked  up  with  a  start.  "  Lose, 
Donnie  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Sure,  you  lose  !  " 

"  Lose  what  ?  " 

"  We  licked  you,  pop,  didn't  we  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  see ! "  Pale  Peter  returned,  relieved. 
"  Yes,  of  course  ;  you  licked  me,  didn't  you  ?  " 
He  snipped  the  end  from  his  cigar  and  absently 
struck  a  match.  "  I  was  thinking  about  some- 
thing else,"  he  added.  "  I  was  thinking  about 
losing — something  else.  You're  pleased,  aren't 
you,  son  ?  Eh  ?  Pleased,  aren't  you  ?  " — and 
here  a  note  of  melancholy  crept  into  Pale  Peter's 
voice — "  to  lick  your  old  dad." 

The  boy  nodded  delightedly. 
313 


3M        THE   END    OF    THE   GAME 

"  Is  it  so  pleasant,"  Pale  Peter  asked,  hurt 
to  the  quick  by  Donald's  elation,  "  to  whip  your 
father?" 

"  Oh,  no ;  not  that !  " 

"  Not  that  ?  "  Pale  Peter  asked,  with  a  troubled 
smile. 

"  No,  pop  ;  but  I'm  glad  that  Billy  the  Beast 
has  gone  home." 

Pale  Peter  looked  away.  "  You're  happy, 
aren't  you?"  said  he,  gently.  "I'm  glad,"  he 
sighed. 

"You  don't  mind,  do  you?"  Donald  asked, 
quickly.  "  You  don't  mind,  do  you,  pop  ? v 

"  Not  at  all." 

"  You're  not  put  out,  are  you,  because — I 
crowed  ?  " 

"  Not  at  all." 

"You  couldn't  be,  could  you,  pop?"  Donald 
went  on,  still  unconvinced  of  his  father's  appro- 
bation. 

"  Not  at  all,  Donnie." 

"  Oh,  you  couldn't  be ! "  said  Donnie,  in  dis- 
tress. 

"  Not  at  all." 

Donald  fixed  his  eyes  on  his  father  in  grave 
and  troubled  doubt.  He,  too,  sighed.  The 
victory  of  Billy  the  Beast,  after  all,  had  a  bitter 
taste  to  the  boy.  It  savoured  too  strongly  of  his 
father's  defeat. 

"  Not  at  all,"  Pale  Peter  repeated. 


THE   END    OF   THE   GAME       315 

It  was  still  blowing  high  ;  and  at  this  moment 
a  blast  of  the  big  gale  brought  down  from  the 
Swamp's  End  station  the  whistle  of  the  depart- 
ing east-bound. 

"  There  he  goes  1 "  said  Donnie. 

"  That's  good,"  said  Pale  Peter.  "  I'm  glad 
of  it,  son — if  you  are." 

Donnie  caught  at  one  of  John  Fairmeadow's 
ejaculations. 

"  Thank  God,  he's  gone  ! "  said  he. 

"  I  reckon,"  Pale  Peter  gravely  observed, 
"  that  Almighty  God  had  a  good  deal  to  do 
with  it." 

Silence  fell  between  the  two.  Donald  rest- 
lessly felt  that  he  had  in  some  way  incurred  his 
father's  displeasure.  But  why  ?  why  ?  Did  his 
father's  business  call  so  implacably  for  the  de- 
struction of  men  ?  The  boy  wearily  dismissed 
this  old,  clamouring  question,  which  had  troubled 
him  enough,  God  knows  !  in  these  last  years. 
He  shook  his  head  in  dismissal  of  the  puzzle — 
and  sighed  heavily.  And  as  for  Pale  Peter — 
Pale  Peter  was  deeply  disturbed.  Pale  Peter 
was  not  troubled,  to  be  sure,  by  the  uproar  in 
the  bar;  nor  did  the  departure  of  Billy  the 
Beast  concern  him  very  much.  He  was  glad, 
indeed,  that  Billy  the  Beast  had  gone :  for  a 
point  of  difference  between  himself  and  his  son 
had  gone  with  that  erring  lumber-jack ;  and  Pale 


316        THE   END    OF    THE    GAME 

Peter  was  wise  enough  to  know  that  a  point  of 
such  sharp  difference  would  speedily  have  multi- 
plied itself.  What  disturbed  Pale  Peter  was  the 
insistent,  haunting  question  :  My  God,  what  if  I 
should  lose  him  ?  The  question  had  asked  itself 
again  and  again  since  Bonnie  had  gone  to  bed 
the  night  before.  It  was  forever  demanding  an 
answer  of  Pale  Peter's  unwilling  heart.  What  if 
I  should  lose  him  ?  What  if  I  should  lose  him  ? 
And  now,  while  Pale  Peter  narrowly  watched 
his  son,  he  observed  much  to  give  him  grave 
concern.  The  boy  was  flushed  and  restless  :  he 
flung  himself  about  in  his  chair,  wretchedly  un- 
easy ;  his  eyes  were  dry  and  dull,  he  laughed 
and  sighed  in  the  same  breath,  and  his  tongue 
began  to  wag  with  the  rapidity  and  incoherency 
of  fever.  But  the  boy  was  only  overwrought, 
Pale  Peter  fancied  :  the  boy  was  only  a  little 
overwrought,  and  would  be  better  in  the  morn- 
ing. Again  :  What  if  I  should  lose  him  ?  What 
if  I  should  lose  him  ?  Pale  Peter,  detached  from 
the  conversation  by  his  anxiety — answering  in 
monosyllables  the  boy's  excited  chatter — watch- 
ing, watching,  all  the  time — brooding,  accusing 
himself,  deliberating — Pale  Peter  made  up  his 
mind  to  be  gone  with  the  lad  from  Swamp's  End 
without  delay.  They  would  be  gone  together. 
Swamp's  End  would  know  them  no  more.  It 
would  presently  be  as  though  Swamp's  End  and 
the  bar  of  the  Red  Elephant  had  never  been  at 


THE   END    OF    THE   GAME        317 

all ;  and  life,  then,  would  surely  be  happier  for 
them  both. 

But  — 

What  if  I  should  lose  him  ? 

"  Donnie,"  said  Pale  Peter,  abruptly,  "  would 
you  like  to  go  away  ?  " 

"  With  you  ?  " 

Pale  Peter's  wound  was  eased  by  the  eager 
question.  "  Yes,"  said  he,  smiling  ;  "  with  me, 
of  course." 

"  For  good  ?  " 

Pale  Peter  was  hurt  again.  The  question  had 
come  instantly.  For  good  ?  It  had  come  in  a 
rush  of  eager  hope.  The  man  frowned.  Donald 
had  betrayed  too  much.  "  You're  tired  of  this, 
aren't  you?"  Pale  Peter  asked.  He  laughed  a 
little.  He  sighed,  then — and  sighed  again. 
"Awfully  tired — of  this — aren't  you,  old  man?" 

"  Of  what,  father  ?  " 

"  Oh,"  Pale  Peter  replied,  wearily,  with  a  ges- 
ture to  include  the  whole  of  Swamp's  End,  from 
the  tumultuous  bar  to  the  white  edge  of  the 
woods,  "  of  all  this  :  of  the  whole  thing.  You're 
pretty  sick  of  it,  aren't  you  ?  " 

"Of  the  Red  Elephant?" 

Again  Pale  Peter  was  wounded.  The  question 
smacked  of  too  large  an  eagerness  to  be  rid  of 
it  all.  "  Yes,  boy,"  he  answered.  "  Aren't  you 
tired  of  the  bar  and  the  bottles  and  the  bestiality 
of  the  whole  bally  business?" 


THE   END    OF   THE   GAME 

Donald's  eyes  sparkled. 

"  Aren't  you  tired  of  it  all,  son  ?  " 

"  I  am,  pop,"  Donald  answered,  gravely  re- 
garding- his  father,  "  if  you  are." 

"  I'm  tired  of  it,"  Pale  Peter  sighed.  "  You've 
made  me  tired  of  it,"  he  went  on.  "  You  see,  I 
want  to  be  on  the  same  side  with  you,  Donnie. 
Don't  you  see  ?  I  don't  want  to  lose  you.  I — I 
don't  want  to  lose  you — in  any  way  at  all.  I 
want  to  be  with  you — not  against  you.  You're 
tired  of  this,  aren't  you?  I  can  see  that,  old 
man.  You're  awfully  tired  of  it.  I  didn't  know 
— before — how  tired  of  it  you  were.  Well,  so 
am  I,  then.  Let's  get  out  of  it.  We'll  get  rid  of 
it,  Donnie,  and  go  away.  We're  all  alone  in  the 
world,  son.  There's  just  you  and  me  left — since 
your  mama  died.  Just  you  and  me,  Donnie — 
just  you  and  me.  Let's  hang  together.  What's 
the  use  of  having  differences?  You  and  I 
shouldn't  have  differences.  And  we'll  have  them 
sure — if  we  stay  here.  I  thought  I'd  stay  a  little 
longer — thought  I'd  stay  here  until  I  made  a 
little  more — thought  I'd  keep  on,  Donnie,  just  as 

long  as — well,  boy,  until  you "  Pale  Peter's 

words  failed.  He  stopped.  The  truth  of  it  was 
in  his  mind  :  that  he  had  hoped  to  continue  with 
the  Red  Elephant  until  Donald  had  grown  old 
enough  to  suspect — merely  to  suspect — the  real 
character  of  the  business  conducted  over  the  bar 
of  the  Red  Elephant ;  but  it  was  evident,  now, 


THE   END    OF   THE   GAME       319 

that  the  boy  was  older  than  Pale  Peter  had 
thought,  and  the  man  stopped,  ashamed  and 
alarmed. 

Donald  said  nothing. 

"Of  course,"  Pale  Peter  went  on,  pitifully, 
"the  business  is  all  right.  It's  all  right,  of 
course  ;  but  if  you're  tired  of  it,  Donnie " 

"  Pop,"  Donald  interrupted,  "  you're  not  fool- 
ing me." 

Pale  Peter  started.     "  No  ?  "  said  he. 

"  No,  pop." 

There  was  a  pause. 

"  I — I — haven't — fooled  you,  Donnie?" 

"You  haven't  fooled  me,  pop,"  Donald  went 
on,  earnestly,  "  for  a  long  time." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  son  ?  " 

"  You  haven't  fooled  me — about  the  business 
— being  all  right." 

Pale  Peter  flushed.  "  How  long,"  he  asked, 
quietly,  "  have  you — have  you — felt  this  way?" 

"  A  long,  long  time." 

"  I  see,"  said  Pale  Peter,  his  flush  of  shame 
mounting  higher.  "  Since  Jack  came  ?  " 

"  Jack  didn't  tell  me,  father.  I  knew  it  before 
he  came." 

Pale  Peter  laughed  sadly  "  You  might  have 
told  me,  Donald,"  said  he.  "  It  would  have 
been  better — had  you  told  me.  You  see,  you've 
— you've — let  me  lie  a  good  deal  to  you." 

"  Oh,  no,  father  ! " 


320        THE   END    OF   THE   GAME 

"  A  good  deal,  son — a  good  deal." 

For  a  long  time  Pale  Peter  sat  musing  in  his 
easy  chair.  The  gale  blew  high :  it  came 
sweeping  down  the  street,  it  clamoured  at  the 
black  window,  it  shook  the  Red  Elephant  to  its 
foundations.  Pale  Peter  did  not  hear.  The  man 
brooded  upon  his  shame,  and  was  broken  by  it. 
Presently  he  looked  up. 

"  You're  ashamed  of  me,  aren't  you  ? "  he 
asked,  with  a  wan  smile. 

"  Why  ?  "  Donald  cried.  "  Why  should  I  be 
ashamed  of  you  ?  " 

"  The  business,  Donnie — and  the  lies." 

"  I'm  not  ashamed  !  " 

"  No  ?  Not  ashamed  ?  You've  not  lost  all 
respect  for  me  ?  " 

"  No,  no  !  " 

"Why  not,  Donald?" 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  Donald 
sobbed  ;  "  but  I  haven't  lost  respect  for  you — oh, 
no— I  haven't ! " 

"  You're  a  good  son,  Donnie,"  said  Pale  Peter, 
his  eyes  glistening.  "  You're  a  loyal  little  fellow. 
We'll  begin  all  over  again — you  and  me  to- 
gether. We'll  not  trouble  about  this  any  more 
at  all.  We'll  forget.  We'll  forget  the  business 
and — and — the  lies.  The  business  isrit  all  right. 
No,  no !  You  know  it,  Donnie.  And  so  we'll 
quit  it — and  go  away  together.  We'll  go 
away  from  Swamp's  End.  And  some  day,  son, 


THE   END    OF   THE   GAME       321 

you  will  respect  your  father,  I  am  sure,  once 
again." 

"  I  respect  you  now"  the  boy  protested,  sob- 
bing. "  I've  always  respected  you  !  " 

Pale  Peter  sighed. 

Near  midnight,  Pale  Peter,  in  anxious  concern, 
tiptoed  into  the  boy's  bedroom,  to  make  sure 
that  he  was  comfortably  stowed  away  for  the 
night.  Donald  was  not  asleep.  "  That  you, 
pop  ?  "  he  muttered.  "I'm  so  glad  you've  come. 
You  won't  go  away,  will  you  ?  I'm  sick — some- 
how, I'm  just  sick  all  over.  My  head  aches — 
and  I  want  a  drink  of  water — and  I  can't  lie  still 
— and  I'm  sick."  Pale  Peter  bade  the  lad  be 
comforted.  What  if  I  should  lose  him?  The 
man's  heart  began  to  ache.  It  was  all  too  ob- 
vious that  Donald  was  gravely  ill.  "  I'll  sit  with 
you,  son,  until  you  go  to  sleep,"  said  he  ;  "  and 
I'll  send  for  Jack,  too,  right  away,  old  man,  and 
we'll  sit  with  you  together,  Jack  Fairmeadow  and  I 
— until  you  go  to  sleep.  Don't  you  be  afraid,  old 
man.  Jack  Fairmeadow  and  I  will  take  care  of 
you"  Pale  Peter  was  become  all  at  once — and 
strangely  so — most  tender  in  his  ministrations. 
And  not  awkwardly  so.  He  'smoothed  the  pil- 
lows, he  straightened  the  coverlets,  he  eased  the 
lad's  lying  and  softened  a  cooler  place  for  his 
head,  he  ran  on  with  his  talk  in  a  crooning,  com- 
forting way,  as  though  he  had  been  used  to  it  all 


322        THE   END    OF   THE   GAME 

his  life.  "  That's  all  right,"  said  he.  "  We' 
you.  We'll  have  the  doctor  here  in  the  morning 
to  attend  to  you.  And  we'll  go  away,  too,  old 
man — we'll  get  out  of  here — just  as  soon  as 
you're  well.  You1  II  be  all  right,  boy.  Easier 
now,  aren't  you  ?  Lie  still,  kid.  Can't  you — 
won't  you — just  lie  still,  old  fellow  ?  " 

"  I  can't,  pop." 

"  Can't  lie  still  ?  " 

"  No,  pop.  I  can't  lie  still.  I  would  if  I 
could  ;  but — but — I'm  so  sick — that  I  just  can't. 
What  time  is  it,  pop  ?  Near  time  to  get  up  ?  " 

"  Not  yet,  old  man." 

"  Hang  it !     I  want  to  get  up." 

"  Lie  still,  boy." 

"  I  can't — I  can't  lie  still." 

Pale  Peter  did  the  work  all  over  again.  He 
straightened  the  coverlets,  he  smoothed  the 
pillows,  he  eased  the  lad's  lying,  and  made  a 
cool,  smooth  place  for  his  head.  "  There !  "  said 
he.  "  That's  better,  old  fellow !  Would  you 
mind,  old  man,  if  I  went  away,  just  for  a 
minute  ?  " 

"  Don't  go  away,  pop,"  Donnie  pleaded. 

"  Just  for  a  minute." 

"  I  don't  want  to  be  left  alone." 

"  Just  for  a  minute,  boy." 

"  What's  that  noise,  pop  ?  " 

"  Just  the  gale,  old  fellow.  It's  blowing  high 
to-night." 


THE   END    OF    THE    GAME       323 

14  You're  not  fooling  me,  pop." 

Pale  Peter  paused  in  trouble. 

"  They're  fighting  in  the  bar,"  Donnie  sighed. 

"  Son,"  said  Pale  Peter,  moving  towards  the 
door,  "  I'll  be  back  in  a  moment." 

"  Don't  go." 

"  Just  a  moment,  Donnie  !  " 

41  Please  don't  go  1 " 

"  I  want  to  close  the  bar,  Donnie,"  Peter 
pleaded.  "  I've  got  to  close  the  bar  ! " 

Donnie  sat  bolt  upright  in  bed.  "  I'll  lie  still," 
he  promised.  "  I'll  lie  still  until  you  come 
back." 

It  did  not  take  long  to  close  the  bar.  A  sharp 
word  to  Charlie  the  Infidel  put  an  end  to  the 
thriving  trade ;  and  a  word  or  two  to  the  big- 
hearted  lumber-jacks  sent  them  tiptoeing  out  of 
the  Red  Elephant  and  across  the  street  to  con- 
tinue the  conviviality  at  the  Cafe  of  Egyptian 
Delights.  Half  a  dozen  or  more  remained  to 
help  Charlie  and  Dennie  the  Hump  carry  off  to 
the  same  shelter  all  the  stupefied  fellows  on  the 
floor  and  in  the  snake-room.  The  Red  Elephant 
was  presently  deserted — and  for  the  first  time  in 
its  history.  In  the  meantime  Pale  Peter  had  sum- 
moned John  Fairmeadow  and  by  telephone  spoken 
hurriedly  with  Dr.  Ralston  of  Big  Rapids.  Donnie 
was  sick.  Some  sort  of  a  fever,  apparently,  was 
the  matter  with  him.  Had  he  been  at  Big  Rapids 


324        THE   END    OF   THE   GAME 

recently?  Yes:  Pale  Peter  had  taken  him  to 
the  Saloon-keepers'  Convention  at  Big  Rapids. 
But  why  the  question  ?  Typhoid  was  epidemic 
at  Big  Rapids;  and  typhoid  was  doubtless  the 
matter  with  Donnie.  Dr.  Ralston  would  be  over 
on  the  morning  train.  No,  no !  Dr.  Ralston 
must  come  at  once.  The  slow  freight  had  just 
gone  by  Swamp's  End.  He  must  halt  the  slow 
freight ;  he  must  make  immediate  arrangements 
by  telegraph  for  the  engine.  There  must  be  no 
regard  for  expense.  Never  mind  expense.  Dr. 
Ralston  must  come  at  once.  And  Dr.  Ralston 
must  bring  two  nurses  from  the  Sisters'  Hospital ; 
and  Dr.  Ralston  must  wire  Appleworthy  of  the 
Capital  to  meet  him  at  Swamp's  End  for  con- 
sultation; and  Dr.  Ralston  must  arrange  the 
immediate  departure  for  Swamp's  End  of  the 
most  eminent  Chicago  specialist  in  children's 
diseases.  Pale  Peter  would  hold  Dr.  Ralston  to 
account.  There  must  be  no  failure  ;  and  there 
must  be  no  delay. 

Whereupon  Pale  Peter  went  quickly  to  the 
bar.  "  Put  out  the  lights,"  said  he. 

Out  went  the  lights. 

"  It's  over,"  said  Peter  ;  "  it's  all  over.  Lock 
the  door.  Where's  the  key  ?  " 

The  bolt  was  shot  with  a  snap. 

"  That's  the  end,"  said  Pale  Peter. 

Up-stairs  Donnie  was  still  restless.     "  I  can't 


THE   END    OF   THE   GAME       325 

lie  still,"  he  complained,  when  his  father  entered. 
"  I  tried — but  I  can't." 

"  The  bar's  closed,  boy."" 

"  Is  it  locked,  pop  ?. " 

"  For  good,  Donnie." 

"  Where's  the  key  ?  " 

Pale  Peter  gave  the  key  to  the  boy ;  and 
Donnie  slipped  it  under  his  pillow.  He  seemed, 
then,  to  lie  easier,  for  a  time ;  but  when  Fair- 
meadow  presently  arrived  he  was  again  restlessly 
stirring. 

"  I  can't  lie  still,  Jack,"  he  explained,  with  a 
wry  smile. 

"  Going  to  be  sick,  Donnie  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no  ! "  said  Donnie,  quickly.  "  I'm  not 
the  least  bit  sick  ;  but  I  somehow  can't  lie  still." 

Fairmeadow  felt  the  fever  in  the  boy's  fore- 
head. 

"  Hang  it  all ! ""  Donnie  exclaimed.  "  I  wish 
I  could  keep  my  legs  still !  " 

This  was  addressed  to  Fairmeadow  ;  but  pres- 
ently after  that  Donnie  seemed  no  longer  to 
realize  the  presence  of  his  father  and  the  minister 
in  the  room.  He  talked  with  shadows — babbled 
to  the  Past  and  the  Future.  In  this  growing  de- 
lirium he  spoke  often  of  going  away  from 
Swamp's  End.  "  We're  going  away,"  he  said. 
"  I  tell  you  we're  going  to  stop  this.  We're  not 
going  to  do  this  any  longer.  We're  sick  and 
red  of  it,  I  tell  you,  and  we're  going  to  quit." 


326        THE   END    OF   THE   GAME 

There  was  much  of  this.  It  ran  on  through  the 
night.  And  the  boy  often  ran  a  hand  weakly 
under  his  pillow  to  touch  the  key.  "  I  got  it," 
said  he.  "  The  bar's  locked — and  I  got  the 
key."  It  seemed  to  Fairmeadow — who  sat  lis- 
tening with  Pale  Peter  in  the  dim-lit  room — 
that  the  boy  fancied  himself  in  the  midst  of  an 
accusing  throng.  "  I  tell  you,"  Donnie  pro- 
tested, "we're  not  going  to  do  it  any  longer. 
We're  going  to  quit.  We're  going  away. 
Don't  you  believe  me?  I  tell  you,  we're  not  go- 
ing to  do  this  any  longer." 

"  John  !  "  Pale  Peter  whispered. 

Fairmeadow  started. 

"  What  does  he  mean  ? "  said  Pale  Peter. 
"  Why  does  he  always  say  '  We '  ?  " 

Fairmeadow  shook  his  head. 

"  I  don't  like  it,"  Pale  Peter  went  on.  "  I  can't 
stand  it.  He  hadn't  anything  to  do  with  the 
business.  It  hasn't  been  his  fault.  HJs  inno- 
cent enough.  Do  you  think  he — feels — that — he 
was  in  it,  too  ?  " 

"  It  is  the  way  of  a  boy,"  Fairmeadow  an- 
swered. 

"Do  you  think,  Jack,"  Peter  stammered, 
"  that  he — feels — the  guilt  of  it  ?  " 

Fairmeadow  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Good  God ! "  exclaimed  Pale  Peter,  starting 
up.  "  All  these  years  !  " 

"  All  these  years  !  "  Fairmeadow  echoed 


THE   END    OF    THE    GAME        327 

"  Tell  me,  Jack— is  it  true  ?  " 

Fairmeadow  would  not  answer. 

"It's  true!"  Pale  Peter  groaned.  "It's 
true !  It's  true !  Poor  little  kid  !  " 

Donnie  started  up  in  bed.  He  seemed  once 
more,  Fairmeadow  fancied,  to  be  facing  an  accus- 
ing throng.  "  My  pop's  a  good  man  !  "  he  de- 
clared. "  I  tell  you,  I'm  proud  of  my  pop  ! " 

Nothing  availed :  the  end  came  soon.  Neither 
Dr.  Ralston  of  Big  Rapids  nor  the  great  Apple- 
worthy  and  the  eminent  Chicago  specialist  could 
alter  the  natural  decree.  No  expense  was 
spared,  you  may  be  sure ;  but  Pale  Peter's 
money,  amassed  for  him  by  the  labour  of  a  thou- 
sand men  in  the  woods,  betrayed  its  accustomed 
powerlessness.  Within  the  week  Gray  Billy 
Batch  and  Mag's  little  baby  had  other  company 
in  the  secluded  field  at  the  edge  of  the  woods. 
The  Lord  gave,  and  the  Lord  hath  taken  away, 
read  John  Fairmeadow ;  blessed  be  the  name  of 
the  Lord.  And,  I  heard  a  voice  from  heaven  say- 
ing unto  me,  Write,  From  henceforth  blessed  are 
the  dead  who  die  in  the  Lord :  even  so  saith  the 
Spirit ;  for  they  rest  from  their  labours.  What 
comfort  Pale  Peter  drew  from  these  consoling 
words,  I  do  not  know.  Not  much,  I  fancy. 
He  said  nothing :  he  gave  no  sign.  What  he 
suffered  on  that  wintry  day  he  kept  to  himself. 
He  uttered  no  word  of  sorrow ;  he  asked  for  no 


328        THE   END    OF   THE   GAME 

relief.  But  when  he  and  John  Fairmeadow  came 
once  more  to  the  Red  Elephant,  he  drew  the  big 
minister  in.  It  was  cold  in  the  little  office :  there 
was  no  fire  in  the  deserted  bar.  It  was  dim, 
too :  the  curtains  were  drawn.  For  a  long  time 
the  two  men  sat  silent  together.  Pale  Peter 
smoked  heavily.  Except  for  this  he  did  not 
move.  No  sound  came  from  the  shuttered  bar : 
no  clink  of  glass,  no  rattle  of  coin,  no  convivial 
voice.  It  was  very  still  and  desolate  in  the  little 
office.  It  was  lonely.  There  had  come  an  end. 
It  was  lonely  there — it  was  lonely  everywhere. 

"  Jack ! "  said  Pale  Peter,  looking  up. 

"Yes,  Peter?" 

"  Do  you  want  this  place  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  You  may  have  it." 

"Thank  you,  Peter.  Thank  you,  old  man. 
I'll  be  glad  to  have  the  place." 

"  Don't  thank  me,  Jack.     Thank — him." 

"  I  thank— him." 

Pale  Peter  gripped  the  arms  of  his  chair. 
Fairmeadow  looked  away.  Pale  Peter  was  com- 
posed when  the  minister's  wet  glance  returned. 

"  Jack,"  said  he,  "  what  you  going  to  do  with 
it?" 

"  It  shall  be  the  Donald  Memorial  Institute." 

"Yes,"  said  Peter;  "that's  right,  Jack.  I 
thought— of  pleasing — him — that  way.  You'll 
need  an  endowment,  too,  J-ack.  You  shall  have 


THE   END    OF   THE   GAME       329 

it.  I've  made  money,  Jack.  You  shall  have  it 
all.  And  Jack  1 " 

"Yes?" 

"  I'm  going  to  ask  you  a  foolish  question,  Jack. 
Do  you  think  that — this  will  square  him — where 
he's  gone  ?  No,  no !  I  don't  mean  that.  But 
won't  it  ease  him,  Jack?  For  God's  sake,  tell 
me  !  Won't  it  ease  that  sense  of  guilt  he  had  ? 
Poor  little  kid  !  Poor  little  kid  1 " 

Pale  Peter  had  broken  down. 


XXXI 

IN  HIS  OWN  BEHALF 

SWAMP'S  END  was  amazed,  of  course, 
when  it  all  came  out ;  but  not  for  long : 
for  it  seemed  to  Swamp's  End,  after  all — 
and  to  Bottle  River,  to  the  Cant-hook,  and  to 
the  boys  of  the  Yellow  Tail,  too — that  Pale 
Peter's  course  had  been  reasonable  enough. 
Swamp's  End  observed  with  solicitous  interest 
the  swift  conversion  of  the  Red  Elephant  into 
the  Donald  Memorial:  nor  was  Swamp's  End 
cynical  in  respect  to  the  outcome,  but,  rather, 
watched  the  progress  of  the  affair  in  curious  and 
hopeful  expectancy.  Swamp's  End  regretted, 
to  be  sure,  and  conceived  it  a  sinful  waste,  when 
news  of  a  certain  deed  in  the  night  went  abroad. 
It  was  held  that  to  broach  casks  of  good  liquor — 
to  shatter  bottles — to  spill  the  last  drop  in  the 
cellar — was  quite  unnecessary  to  the  accomplish- 
ment of  Pale  Peter's  admirable  purpose  :  that 
though  good  liquor  had  no  proper  place  within 
the  four  walls  of  the  Donald  Memorial  there 
were  other  ways  of  disposing  of  it.  Why 
waste?  Why  not  rather  celebrate?  Why  not 
call  the  boys  from  the  woods  and  initiate  the 
undertaking  in  the  traditional  way?  Wouldn't 

33° 


IN   HIS    OWN   BEHALF  351 

the  boys  come?  To  be  sure,  the  boys  would 
come!  Gladly,  generously,  too;  and  John  Fair- 
meadow  might  pray  as  much  as  he  liked.  A 
little  conviviality  need  not  interfere  with  the 
religious  exercises.  It  never  had  before.  In 
these  strange  circumstances,  moreover,  it  might 
help  :  the  boys  would  feel  more  at  home  in  the 
new  surroundings.  Aside  from  this  small  criti- 
cism, however,  the  project  met  with  the  ap- 
proval of  the  woods;  and  when  the  paper- 
hangers  had  returned  to  Big  Rapids,  and  when 
a  car-load  of  new  furniture  from  the  East  had 
been  installed,  and  when  the  lamps  were  lighted 
once  more  in  the  transformed  bar,  and  when  the 
warm  glow  fell  again  from  the  red-curtained 
windows  into  the  night,  Swamp's  End  met  the 
new  proprietor  at  the  threshold,  and  warmly 
shook  his  hand,  and  grinned,  and  having 
inspected  the  comfortable  place  heartily  "  reck- 
oned "  that  "  she'd  do." 

By  this  time,  however,  Pale  Peter  was  gone. 
There  had  come  a  blustering  night.  The  late 
east-bound,  plastered  with  driven  snow,  puffed 
into  the  station,  and  stood  still,  breathing 
heavily. 

"  Good-bye,  Jack !  "  said  Pale  Peter. 

"Peter,"  John  Fairmeadow  earnestly  returned, 
"  won't  you  stay  ?  " 

"  No  need  of  me,  old  man.  Everything's 
fixed.  You're  in  full  and  legally  determined 


332  IN   HIS   OWN   BEHALF 

possession  of  the  old  place.  That's  all  I  care 
about.  Good-bye ! " 

"Peter " 

"  Good-bye  1 " 

"Won't  you  stay,  old  man,  and  help?" 

"  No,  no,  Jack !  I  reckon  you  don't  need  a 
man  like  me.  And  you  know,  Jack,  you  have  a 
little  partner  remaining.  You'll  stand  by,  I 
know.  You'll  stand  by — him." 

"  I'll  stand  by,  Peter." 

"  Good-bye ! " 

"  Good-bye,  old  man !     God  bless  you ! " 

So  passed  Pale  Peter  from  Swamp's  End :  nor 
was  he  ever  heard  of  again.  But  the  little 
partner  remained :  the  little  partner  remained  in 
the  spirit  to  bless  the  woods  and  to  inspire  the 
shepherd  of  its  erring  souls. 

There  came  presently  to  John  Fairmeadow, 
busy  and  distracted,  a  politely  phrased  and 
cautious  invitation  to  address  the  Superior  Body 
— briefly  to  address  the  Superior  Body — in  rela- 
tion to  his  ministerial  activities  in  the  lumber 
woods.  John  Fairmeadow  was  assured  that  the 
Superior  Body  was  "  back  "  of  him  in  his  "  labour 
for  the  Lord  " — that  the  Superior  Body  not  only 
respected  but  prayed  for  him — that  the  brethren 
would  be  delighted  to  receive  him — to  listen  to 
him — briefly,  of  course — and  that  the  brethren 
would  doubtless  be  pleased  to  carry  to  their 


/N  HIS    OWN  BEHALF  333 

congregations  news  of  his  most  interesting  and 
peculiar  work,  to  the  end  that  some  small  sums 
might  be  raised  to  assist  it.  Wherefore  John 
Fairmeadow  was  urged  to  make  an  "  impres- 
sion " — to  "  hit  the  bull's-eye,"  now  that  he  had 
the  chance — to  "  strike  while  the  iron  was  hot." 
He  was  indulgently  warned,  moreover,  that  the 
brethren  were  busy  men ;  and  he  was  "  tipped 
off "  in  this  connection  that  brevity  would  be  a 
telling  point  in  his  favour.  It  was  an  earnest, 
interested,  wholly  agreeable  letter,  and  John  Fair- 
meadow  was  delighted  with  it.  "  Now,"  thought 
he,  "that's  mighty  kind  in  the  boys.  It  isn't 
what  I  expected  to  speak  to  them  about ;  but  I'll 
do  my  best."  It  will  be  observed  that  John 
Fairmeadow  was  flattered — flattered  to  be 
brought  into  an  accepted  relationship  with  the 
ordained  of  his  profession.  And  doubtless  John 
Fairmeadow,  having  applied  his  large  energy 
and  devotion  to  the  task,  would  have  composed 
a  capital  address — would  both  have  "hit  the 
bull's-eye  "  and  "  struck  while  the  iron  was  hot " 
— had  not  Long  Butcher  Long,  one  of  his 
parishioners,  developed  delirium  tremens,  at 
that  inopportune  moment,  and  needed  the 
closest  sort  of  attention.  Worse  than  that,  John 
Fairmeadow  was  late :  the  Superior  Body  was 
already  in  session. 

When  Fairmeadow  arrived  in  the  anteroom  of 
the  church  at  the  Capital  where  the  Superior 


H4  IN   HIS   OWN   BEHALF 

Body  was  deliberating,  his  big  hand  was  shaken 
by  a  diffident,  white-era vated,  frock-coated,  pale- 
fingered,  spectacled  little  man,  the  author  of  the 
politely-phrased  letter,  and  welcomed  with 
caution.  "  We're  mighty  glad  to  have  you  with 
us,  Mr.  Fairmeadow,''  said  the  little  gentleman, 
his  manner  conveying  a  due  sense  of  the  honour 
the  Superior  Body  had  conferred  upon  John 
Fairmeadow. 

"That's  all  right,  old  man'"  Fairmeadow  re- 
sponded. "  I'm  glad,  too." 

The  little  gentleman  peered  at  John  Fair- 
meadow  over  his  spectacles.  "The  Superior 
Body  is  sorry,  of  course,"  said  he,  "  that  the 
outcome  of  your  examination  was — unfortu- 
nate." 

Fairmeadow  laughed.  "  That's  all  right,  old 
man,"  he  replied.  "  I'm  sorry,  too.  So  are  the 
boys.  That's  why  I  am." 

•"  You  see,  Mr.  Fairmeadow,"  the  little  gentle- 
man began  to  stammer,  in  apology,  "  we — we 
have  to " 

"  Don't  mention  it,"  said  Fairmeadow. 

The  little  gentleman  was  ill  at  ease.  "If  I 
were  you,  Mr.  Fairmeadow,"  he  said,  at  last,  "  I 
shouldn't  refer  to  the  matter  in  my  address  to 
the  brethren." 

"Why  not?" 

"  Well,  you  see,  nothing — would  be — accom- 
plished." 


IN   HIS   OWN   BEHALF  335 

"  No  ?  "  Fairmeadow  inquired,  amused. 

"  Nothing  whatsoever.  The  Superior  Body 
has  made  up  its  mind.  In  certain  cases,  of 
course,  ordination  is  conferred  upon  men  of — 
well — of  limited  theological  education  ;  but  these 
are  extraordinary  cases,  and  the  Superior  Body, 
in  discussing  your  case,  has  determined,  Mr. 
Fairmeadow,  that  your  usefulness  would  not  be 
increased  by " 

"Just  so!"  Fairmeadow  interrupted;  "but 
the  Superior  Body  knows  nothing  about  it.  In 
point  of  fact,  my  usefulness  would  be  increased. 
My  parishioners  want  an  ordained  minister. 
They're  quite  right,  too.  And  for  that  reason  I 
have  sought " 

"  My  dear  fellow  !  " 

"Now,"  Fairmeadow  went  on,  "I'd  like  to  tell 
the  boys  in  there " 

"  My  dear  fellow !  Don't  think  of  such  a 
thing.  Take  my  advice.  Let  the  matter  drop. 
The  Superior  Body  has  had  a  full  and  free  dis- 
cussion of  the  standard  of  theological  training 
it  should  demand  of  all  applicants  for  ordina- 
tion  " 

"  Theological  training  ?  "  Fairmeadow  laughed. 

"  Yes,  of  course,"  the  little  gentleman  replied  ; 
11  and  in  your  case " 

"  I'll  tell  'em  about  mine." 

"  Theological  training  ?     You've  had  none !  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  have,  old  man ! "  said  Fairmeadow, 


IN  HIS   OWN  BEHALF 

confidently.  "  And  I'm  going  to  tell  the  boys  in 
there  all  about  it." 

"  My  dear  fellow  !  " 

"  That's  all  right,  old  man,"  said  Fairmeadow, 
positively ;  " but  by  Jove,  I  will!  " 

When  the  chairman's  attention  was  at  last 
distracted  from  the  discussion  under  way  for 
John  Fairmeadow's  introduction,  he  managed 
to  shake  hands  in  a  quick,  soft  way,  and  to 
whisper,  "  Glad  you've  come.  Very  busy,  just 
now.  Be  seated  somewhere.  I'll  call  on  you  in 
due  course."  Then  he  returned  on  tiptoe  to  his 
little  table  and  once  more  smilingly  faced  the 
busy  meeting  of  the  black-coated  brethren.  John 
Fairmeadow  sat  down  to  wait — to  look  and  to 
listen  and  to  marvel.  The  debate  was  prolonged 
and  somewhat  acrimonious.  I  have  forgotten 
what  it  concerned.  It  was  a  point  of  order,  per- 
haps ;  or  it  may  have  been  the  congregational 
squabble  at  Brown's  Corners.  I  have  forgotten. 
Perhaps  it  was  the  progress  of  missions  among 
the  Mohammedans  of  Southern  Arabia.  This 
does  not  matter,  however :  it  was  prolonged,  at 
any  rate,  and  it  was  slightly  acrimonious,  so  that 
the  chairman  must  keep  a  tight  rein  on  the 
brethren,  who  were  used,  at  such  times,  being 
one  family,  to  loose  themselves  somewhat  from 
restraint.  There  were  retort  and  rejoinder  in 
plenty,  some  of  it  keen-edged  ;  and  there  was  a 


IN   HIS   OWN  BEHALF  337 

good  deal  of  laughter,  too.  John  Fairmeadow 
fidgeted  in  his  pew.  Time  was  passing;  his 
train  was  due  to  leave  within  the  hour ;  and  Long 
Butcher  Long,  now  reposing  in  the  care  of  Plain 
Tom  Hitch  in  the  glorified  snake-room  of  the 
Donald  Memorial  at  Swamp's  End,  would  need 
John  Fairmeadow's  more  knowing  and  more 
powerful  attentions  that  night.  So  Fairmeadow 
stared  and  listened  impatiently — and  fidgeted  in 
his  pew — and  wondered  how  much  time  a  gather- 
ing of  ordained  ministers  might  waste  with  an 
easy  conscience — and  speculated  upon  the  con- 
dition of  all  the  parishioners  who  went  lacking  a 
shepherd  in  the  meantime — and  heartily  wished 
"they'd  get  through."  At  last,  they  did,  of 
course ;  and  the  bewildered  Fairmeadow  won- 
dered what  the  outcome  of  the  discussion  had 
been.  It  was  not  surprising :  for  the  matter  had 
"  gone  over." 

In  the  midst  of  his  effort  to  solve  the  rid- 
dle, Fairmeadow  heard  the  smiling  chairman 
say  — 

"  A  few  words  from  Brother  Fairmeadow,  re- 
ports of  whose  work  among  the  degraded  lumber- 
jacks of  our  state  have  interested  us  so  much, 
and  who  will  briefly  address  us." 

Fairmeadow  rose,  looked  composedly  around, 
put  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  squared  his  shoul- 
ders, and  audibly  sighed.  Nobody  knows  why 
he  sighed :  I  fancy  that  Fairmeadow  him- 


338  IN   HIS   OWN  BEHALF 

self  had  no  idea  at  the  time.  But  the  sigh  was 
so  deep  and  frank,  you  may  believe,  that  it  was 
quite  sufficient  to  procure  attention  and  a  curi- 
ous silence  in  the  church.  There  had  been  a 
good  deal  of  talk  about  Fairmeadow.  From 
many  sources  the  brethren  had  learned  a  good 
deal  about  him.  There  had  been  a  good  deal  of 
laughter,  too.  The  examining  committee  had 
not  failed  to  tell  picturesque  tales  in  the  most 
humorous  fashion  in  the  world  about  the  experi- 
ence with  Billy  the  Beast  at  Swamp's  End.  The 
Superior  Body  had  laughed  heartily  in  the  leisure 
moments  of  the  last  session ;  and  the  congrega- 
tions beyond — for  the  story  was  far  too  good  to 
keep,  embellished,  as  it  had  been,  by  the  inge- 
nuity of  the  examining  committee — had  echoed 
the  laughter  of  the  brethren.  And  Fairmeadow, 
now  standing  gravely  before  them  all,  clad  in  the 
lumber-woods  way,  still  in  mackinaw  and  heavy 
boots,  was  a  figure  good  to  look  upon,  if  only  on 
account  of  the  admirable  contrast  he  presented. 
A  clean,  true  man,  at  work,  hard  at  work,  in  the 
world :  a  big,  broad-shouldered,  deep-chested, 
long-legged  body,  evidently  with  a  soul  to  match 
its  excellencies,  and  with  a  glowing  heart  and  a 
*  purpose  lifted  high.  No  wonder  the  brethren 
attended.  It  was  an  occurrence  out  of  the  or- 
dinary— quite  out  of  the  ordinary,  believe  me. 
And  while  the  big  man  in  the  mackinaw  looked 
gravely  roundabout  upon  them  all,  seeming  to 


/N  HIS   OWN  BEHALF  339 

pause  to  look  into  the  eyes  of  each,  the  brethren 
settled  themselves  to  listen,  stirred  by  an  agree- 
able little  thrill  of  impending  excitement. 

The  chairman  repeated,  absently  — 

"  Will  briefly  a-dress-ss  us-s." 

"  Boys,"  Fairmeadow  began,  genially,  in  his 
big,  warm  way,  "  I'm  almighty  sorry  I  can't  stay 
very  long  with  you." 

A  little  laughter  was  provoked. 

"You  see,  boys,"  Fairmeadow  went  on,  in- 
genuously, "  I'm  a  busy  man,  and  I've  got  to  get 
back  on  the  job  by  the  6 : 43.  Otherwise  I'd  be 
glad  to  talk  to  you  all  night." 

Somebody  called  — 

"  Talk  as  long  as  you  like  1 " 

"  Thanks,  old  man,"  Fairmeadow  replied.  "  I'd 
like  to.  Really,  I  would.  But " 

"  Go  on  1    Go  on ! " 

Fairmeadow  nodded  and  smiled  his  acknowl- 
edgment of  this  genuine  interest.  "What  I 
want  to  talk  to  you  about,"  he  began,  "  is  some- 
thing you've  been  a  good  deal  bothered  about, 
and  that's  my  ordination " 

"The  brother,"  said  the  chairman,  promptly, 
"  is  out  of  order." 

"That's  all  right,  old  man,"  Fairmeadow  be* 
gan,  smiling;  "but  you  see " 

There  were  loud  cries  of  — 

"  Let  him  go  on  !     Go  on,  brother  1 " 

The  chairman  bowed  acquiescence :  the  wish 


340  IN  HIS   OWN  BEHALF 

of  the  brethren  was  evidently  unanimous  and  far 
too  fervent  to  be  opposed. 

"Thanks,  boys,"  Fairmeadow  responded,  qui- 
etly. "  That's  just  what  I  mean  to  do." 

There  was  a  round  of  applause. 

Fairmeadow  began  at  the  beginning.  "  Boys," 
said  he,  so  gravely  that  his  deep  voice  thrilled  the 
hearts  of  every  man  among  them,  "  I  am  a  re- 
deemed drunkard  :  in  this  is  my  call  and  educa- 
tion and  therein  resides  my  right  to  ordination." 
After  that  the  silence  was  not  once  broken.  The 
good  brethren,  sitting  in  the  presence  of  a  man 
who  had  suffered  the  fires  of  unrighteousness,  lis- 
tened, enthralled,  to  the  story  of  those  other  days. 
There  was  not  a  whisper — not  a  movement. 
It  was  all  frankly  told :  the  tale  of  the  Bowery 
saloon,  of  the  park  benches,  of  begging  and  filth 
and  shivering  nights,  of  hopelessness  and  of 
helpless,  uttermost  degradation.  "  And  at  last, 
boys,"  Fairmeadow  proceeded,  "  I  was  kicked 
out  of  Solomon's  Cellar,  and  had  no  place  to  go. 
And  I  got  up  from  a  bench  in  Mulberry  Park, 
boys,  and  was  advised,  by  two  friendly  fellows, 
to  go  down  to  Jerry  McAuley's  mission  in  Water 
Street.  '  Go  down  there,'  they  said,  '  and  God 
will  help  you.'  It  was  raining.  It  was  a  cold, 
wet  night  in  the  fall  of  the  year.  I  was  sick,  and 
cold,  and  on  the  verge  of  delirium  tremens  /  and 
I  needed  a  drink — I  desperately  needed  a  drink. 


IN   HIS    OWN   BEHALF  341 

They  told  me  the  way,  I  suppose — I  have  for- 
gotten. And  I  forget  all  that  happened  until  I 
found  myself  at  the  door  of  the  mission  in  Water 
Street  with  the  definite  idea  that  I  had  come  for 
a  bed-ticket.  I  had  not  come  for  religious  con- 
solation, you  may  be  sure — not  for  spiritual 
grace.  I  had  come  for  what  I  could  get  out  of 
it — for  what  a  sick  drunkard  needed — a  bed- 
ticket 

"They  were  singing.  It  chanced  that  they 
were  singing  a  hymn  my  mother  used  to  sing 
when  I  was  a  boy  at  home.  I  sat  down — ob- 
scurely. I  was  drunk.  It  may  be  that  I  had 
had  a  drink  on  the  way  to  Water  Street — per- 
haps two — I  do  not  know.  But  I  was  drunk ; 
and  I  reasoned — benighted  reason  ! — that  if  I 
were  to  get  my  ticket  I  must  behave  my- 
self before  all  these  pious  folk.  They  were 
singing, 


Rock  of  Ages,  cleft  for  me, 
Let  me  hide  myself  in  Thee 


and  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  could  hear  my  moth- 
er's voice,  that  I  could  see  her  face,  that  she  was 
living  again,  that  I  was  at  home  again,  a  boy. 
.  .  .  You  understand  ?  You  know  the  vision 
that  might  come  to  such  a  man  as  I — then? 
.  .  .  Presently  they  sang  again.  It  chanced 
— shall  I  say  chanced  ? — that  my  mother  used  to 


342  IN   HIS    OWN   BEHALF 

sing  that  simple  hymn,  too,  when  I  was  a  boy  at 
home.  It  was, 

"  '  Jesus,  lover  of  my  soul, 

Let  me  to  Thy  bosom  fly     .     .     . ' 

and  I  was  overcome.  I  had  loved  my  mother. 
I  had  wronged  her,  of  course ;  but  I  had  never 
ceased  to  love  her — never  failed,  in  all  those  de- 
graded years,  to  cherish  her  memory.  I  had 
loved  her!  I  drank  her  to  death,  God  knows 
it !  But  I  had  loved  her,  God  knows — loved  her 
every  hour ! " 

Fairmeadow  paused. 

"While  they  sang  these  simple  hymns,"  he 
went  on,  presently  resuming,  "  memory  of  my 
mother  stirred  within  me — memory  of  her,  of 
home,  of  trees  and  lawn,  of  the  touch  of  her 
hand,  her  prayers,  her  kisses,  of  myself  as  a  lad, 
of  the  old  aspirations,  of  baseball,  of  my  bed- 
room— the  little  things  of  home  and  childhood 
and  of  a  man's  mother — her  voice  and  hands 
and  eyes. 

"  You  know,  don't  you  ?  .  .  .  Every  man, 
surely,  understands.  .  .  ." 

The  brethren  understood. 

"  I  had  not  thought  much  of  such  things  for  a 
long  time,  perhaps,"  Fairmeadow  continued. 
"  I  had  been  concerned  with  the  pursuit  of — 
another  drink.  Perhaps  the  old  hymns — these 
awakened  memories — exhibited  my  degradation 


IN  HIS   OWN  BEHALF  343 

with  conviction  to  my  own  soul.  I  don't 
know.  .  .  .  But  when  one  of  the  brothers 
testified  I  listened.  I  believed  him.  It  seemed 
to  me  that  he  was  telling  the  story  of  my  life 
and  wretchedness — not  of  another's — not  of  his 
life  any  more  than  of  mine.  I  believed  him. 
It  was  true.  I  knew  that  every  word  was  true. 
I  knew — knew  intimately — the  back  room  of  the 
Bowery  saloon  from  which  he  had  been  ejected. 
Others  testified  to  redemption  through  Jesus 
Christ — to  salvation  from  themselves  and  every 
power  of  evil.  And  I  knew  that  they  did  not 
lie.  .  .  .  Some  gave  thanks  for  a  day's 
preservation — some  for  the  ease  of  a  week — 
some  for  years  of  joyous,  useful  life.  What  they 
had  been  was  what  I  was.  I  knew  it.  What 
they  had  become  I  could  see  with  my  own  eyes. 
They  were  clean  ;  they  were  not  in  rags — they 
had  no  thirst.  They  were  men  of  joy  to  them- 
selves— of  value  to  the  world.  .  .  .  And  they 
had  no  consciousness  of  guilt.  They  had 
peace.  .  .  .  And  I — I  was  still  a  drunken 
outcast — a  sinner  in  rags,  dirty,  drunk,  shirtless, 
ill.  .  .  .  But  they  had  been  what  I  was. 
They  had  not  lied  when  they  said  so.  There 
was  hope,  then,  for  me.  You  see,  these  men 
were  the  living  evidence  of  that  hope.  And  I 
learned  '  the  way  of  salvation.'  " 

Again  a  pause :  the  chairman  leaned  forward 
a  little — all  the  brethren  leaned  forward — as  the 


344  IN   HIS   OWN   BEHALF 

climax  of  this  indubitable  experience  of  the  soul 
approached. 

"  Somebody  asked  me  if  I  would  not  give 
God  a  chance  in  my  life — a  clean,  strong,  kindly 
man  .  .  .  who  had  been  what  I  was,  and 
whom  I  knew  to  have  been  what  I  was.  .  .  . 
Did  I  not  care  to  give  God  a  chance  to  restore 
me  ?  Would  I  not  try  it  ?  Would  I  not  be  prayed 
for  ?  Would  I  not  pray  for  myself  ?  .  .  .  I 
was  drunk — still  drunk — but  I  was  resolved.  I 
was  down  and  out.  I  had  nothing  left.  And  I 
went  forward  to  get  what  these  men  had — what 
my  soul  desired — redemption.  It  was  a  logical 
determination.  The  evidence  of  God's  activity 
in  the  world — of  His  power  and  wish  to  regen- 
erate— had  been  so  convincingly  exhibited  that 
no  rational  intelligence  could  endure  to  doubt 
it.  And  I  was  in  a  position  to  know  the  depths 
from  which  these  men  had  been  lifted  .  .  . 
and  I  knew  that  only  the  power  and  love  of 
Almighty  God  could  so  lift  them  up.  .  .  . 

"  And  I  got  up  from  my  knees  a  new  man — 
'  A  new  creature  in  Christ  Jesus.'  I  had  been 
'  born  again.'  It  is  not  a  cant  phrase  ;  I  used  to 
think  so  ;  but  now  I  know — I  know — it  isn't. 
There  are  no  other  words  so  accurately  to  de- 
scribe the  change  which  had  occurred  within  me 
— no  other  words  to  describe  the  completeness 


IN   HIS   OWN   BEHALF  345 

of  it,  the  newness  of  the  life  into  which  I  had 
come,  a  child  in  righteous  ways.  I  was  re- 
generated :  I  had  been  '  born  again.'  I  was 
sober.  And  from  that  moment  I  have  never 
wanted  alcohol.  ...  A  miracle — as  truly  a 
miracle  as  any  healing  ever  was  !  And  in  every 
essential  a  miracle.  ...  I  have  not  wanted 
a  drink.  Do  you  apprehend  the  stupendous 
change  which  had  occurred  within  me  ?  /  have 
not  wanted  a  drink  since  that  time  /  .  .  .  I 
did  want  a  bath.  Instantly.  But  I  was  too  dirty 
to  be  given  one  without  precautions.  And  I 
wanted  a  clean  shirt.  I  loathed  my  rags — my 
dirty  person.  I  wanted  to  be  clean.  How  I 
craved  a  bath  1  And  pride  at  once  revived — the 
good  pride  of  manhood.  One  of  the  brothers — 
we  redeemed  drunkards  are  all  brothers — offered 
me  five  cents.  I  rejected  it — and  with  hurt  pride. 
I  was  no  beggar  !  I  was  a  man  again — a  gentle- 
man !  What  did  I  want  of  charity  ?  What  did 
I  want  of  a  nickel  I  hadn't  earned  ?  I  wanted 
work.  First  I  wanted  sleep — I  desperately  needed 
a  bed — and  then  I  wanted  a  bath  and  a  job.  I 
had  my  bath  in  the  morning.  What  a  gracious 
gift  it  was  !  And  I  got  my  job,  too — and  I  got 
my  clean  shirt." 

The  crisis  was  past :  there  was  a  ripple  of 
nervous  laughter  among  the  brethren,  which  was 
Instantly  stilled  as  Fairmeadow  proceeded. 

u  But  I  lay  that  night  in  a  Bowery  lodging- 


346  JN   HIS   OWN   BEHALF 

house,"  he  went  on.  "  It  was  a  heaven  of  rest 
and  ease  and  quiet  and  seclusion  after  Solomon's 
Cellar.  I  was  too  dirty  to  be  put  in  the  long 
room  with  the  decent  Bowery  rowdies  and  drunks. 
I  was  given  a  bunk  in  a  section  reserved  for — 
the  worst  of  us.  .  .  .  I  was  very  low,  you 
see.  .  .  .  But  I  was  too  weak  to  crawl  into 
bed  ;  they  must  lift  me  in.  I  did  not  sleep.  I 
lay  awake  all  that  night — in  tears  and  prayer  and 
joyous  aspiration.  My  tears  were  of  contrition  • 
my  prayers  were  of  rejoicing,  of  incoherent,  un- 
utterable gratitude ;  my  aspiration  was  towards 
work,  and  service,  and  self-respect,  and  the  love 
of  all  men.  A  wonderful  night! — a  night  in 
which  those  things  which  I  had  once  cherished, 
but  had  long  abandoned,  were  restored  to  me  : 
hope,  truth,  love,  pure  ambition.  The  things  of 
St.  Paul :  '  Whatsoever  things  are  true,  whatso- 
ever things  are  honest,  whatsoever  things  are 
just,  whatsoever  things  are  pure,  whatsoever 
things  are  lovely,  whatsoever  things  are  of  good 
report :  if  there  be  any  virtue,  and  if  there  be  any 
praise.  .  .  .'  It  seems  to  me  now  that  in 
that  night  I  travelled  back  over  the  long  way  I 
had  come — that  I  was  once  more  in  the  company 
of  the  pure  things  of  my  boyhood.  I  was  a  new 
creature,  you  see,  in  Christ  Jesus.  .  .  .  And 
in  the  morning  I  stumbled  rejoicing  to  the  labour 
of  a  new  day  in  a  new  life.  .  .  .  And  I  was 
sober — and  I  was  not  at  all  afraid.  ." 


IN   HIS   OWN   BEHALF  347 

It  was  the  end. 

"  Now,  boys,"  Fairmeadow  gravely  added, 
"  you  know  why  I  am  here.  You  know  the 
meaning  of  such  a  life  as  mine — know  its  signifi- 
cance in  a  world  of  men.  You  know  what  my 
work  is,  too,  and  whether  or  not  I  am  called  of 
God  to  do  it,  and  whether  or  not  I  am  an  instru- 
ment well  chosen  to  serve  God's  purposes  in  these 
woods." 

He  sat  down. 

"  Brethren,"  said  the  chairman,  reverently, 
"  let  us  pray  ! " 

After  that  they  ordained  John  Fairmeadow  on 
the  spot ;  and  Fairmeadow,  when  he  got  back  to 
Swamp's  End,  had  much  ado  to  keep  the  boys 
from  celebrating  the  event  according  to  the  cus- 
toms established. 


XXXII 

LOVE  AND  LABOUR 

IT  was  spring  again  at  Swamp's  End.  The 
snow  was  gone  :  the  trails  were  dry  and 
greening.  Balmy  winds  came  over  the  il- 
limitable forest  from  the  west.  All  the  busy  little 
persons  of  the  woods  began  to  chirp  and  twitter 
in  vast  excitement.  There  was  the  flutter  of 
little  wings  in  the  underbrush  ;  and  there  was  a 
noisy  chatter  in  the  branches  of  the  big  pines, 
changing  to  crooning,  sweeter  calls  at  dusk. 
Once  more,  of  a  Sunday  afternoon,  Pattie  Batch 
had  the  baby — gray-eyed,  dimpled  little  Pattie 
Batch — once  more  dear  little  Pattie  Batch  had 
the  baby  at  the  companionable  patch  of  wild- 
flowers  on  the  edge  of  the  woods.  A  toddler, 
now — that  adorable  Little  One  1  And  quite  able, 
too,  if  you  will  believe  it,  to  utter,  with  perfect 
distinctness,  the  sweetest  word  in  all  the  world. 
An  accomplishment,  indeed,  hard  to  be  matched 
in  babies — of  that  tender  age  !  It  was  a  gentle 
day :  a  blue  sky,  with  ships  of  white  cloud  sail- 
ing past,  high  above  the  forest,  bound  heaven 
knew  where  !  but  to  some  joyous  event,  and  hur- 
rying thereto.  A  soft,  redolent  breeze  flowed 
into  the  clearing,  where  it  paused  to  play  with 

348 


LOVE   AND    LABOUR  349 

the  flowers  and  sweet  grasses  ;  and  then  off  it 
whisked,  in  shadow  and  sunshine,  to  that  self- 
same joyous,  distant  place  to  which  the  great 
white  clouds  were  going.  It  was  a  day  for 
dreaming — such  was  the  day  :  the  sunshine  of  it, 
the  tender  wind,  the  new,  sweet  green,  the  amo- 
rous twitter.  And  little  Pattie  Batch  was  dream- 
ing ;  she  plucked  flowers  for  the  baby — she  gave 
him  a  garland,  she  crowned  him,  she  put  a 
sceptre  in  his  dimpled  hand — and  she  was  dream- 
ing all  the  while.  Sadly?  Not  at  all!  The 
mist  in  her  gray  eyes — which  presently  gathered 
and  fell  in  two  little  tears — had  no  part  with 
melancholy.  Not  at  all  1  Not  a  bit  of  it ! 
Pattie  Batch  was  very,  very  happy.  She  would 
have  admitted  it  had  you  asked  her. 

John  Fairmeadow  struck  in  from  the  Bottle 
River  Trail  and  came  smiling  broadly  to  the 
patch  of  wild-flowers  on  the  edge  of  the  woods. 

"  Hello,  there,  Pattie  Batch  ! "  he  shouted. 

"  'Lo,  Jack  ! " 

"Where's  my  tea?"  John  Fairmeadow  de- 
manded, scowling  tremendously. 

Pattie  Batch  pursed  her  lips. 

"  Eh  ?  " 

"It  isn't  ready." 

"  Not  ready !  "  John  Fairmeadow  complained, 
with  a  great  air  of  indignation.  "  Well,  well  I  I 
like  your  independence  !  " 

"  When  it  is  time  for  your  tea,  John  Fair- 


350  LOYE   AND   LABOUR 

meadow,"  said  little  Pattie  Batch,  in  firm  reproof, 
"  you  will  get  your  tea — and  not  a  minute  be- 
fore." 

"  Wh-wh-zfe^a/  / "  John  Fairmeadow  stam- 
mered. 

Pattie  Batch  smiled.  It  was  delicious,  indeed, 
to  treat  big  John  Fairmeadow  in  this  masterful 
way.  The  chagrin  and  astonishment  which  he 
was  quick  to  feign  were  really  quite  irresistible. 
Pattie  Batch  smiled  :  she  couldn't  help  it ;  and 
then  she  giggled,  and  then  she  chuckled,  and 
then  she  broke  into  a  ripple  of  laughter.  John 
Fairmeadow  laughed,  too — a  great  roar  of 
laughter.  And  the  baby,  of  course,  displaying 
an  amazing  perception  of  the  joke,  chuckled  like 
a  cherub  :  than  which,  as  everybody  knows,  there 
is  no  sweeter  chuckle  in  the  heavens  above 
or  on  the  earth  beneath.  What  with  John  Fair- 
meadow's  resonant,  deep  bass  roar,  and  the 
baby's  heavenly  cachination,  and  Pattie  Batch's 
rippling,  tintinnabulous  cadenza,  you  may  be 
sure  that  a  fine  chord  of  glee  was  struck  on  that 
mellow  Sunday  afternoon  in  Gray  Billy  Batch's 
clearing  on  the  Bottle  River  trail  beyond  Swamp's 
End. 

Presently  the  afternoon  was  spent :  the  shadows 
were  grown  long  in  the  clearing,  the  twitter  in 
the  woods  had  begun  to  fail,  the  west  was 
flushing. 


LOVE   AND   LABOUR  351 

"  Pattie  !  "  said  John  Fairmeadow. 

Pattie  Batch  started  :  the  ardent  quality  of 
John  Fairmeadow's  voice  was  such  that  — 

"  Patience  1  "  Fairmeadow  repeated. 

One  glance  was  sufficient  for  Pattie  Batch  : 
one  glance  into  John  Fairmeadow's  eyes  was 
enough  to  startle  the  little  thing  quite  out  of  her 
wits. 

"  It'th  time  for  tea,"  said  she,  hastily,  her  lisp 
overcoming  her. 

"  Not  yet." 

"  Yeth,  yeth  !  " 

"  Not  yet,"  Fairmeadow  repeated  ;  "  not  until 


"  Yeth,  yeth  !  "  Pattie  gasped. 

Big  John  Fairmeadow  had  a  sense  of  helpless- 
ness to  which  he  was  not  at  all  used  ;  and  still 
continuing  in  this  strange  paralysis,  he  watched 
and  listened,  without  lifting  a  finger  to  help  him- 
self, while  Pattie  Batch  snatched  the  baby  from 
his  bed  of  flowers,  protesting  all  the  time  that  it 
was  time  for  tea,  that  it  was  long  past  time  for 
tea,  indeed,  that  there  wouldn't  be  any  tea  at  all, 
if  she  didn't  look  out  —  watched  and  listened,  con- 
founded, while  Pattie  Batch  fluttered  off  to  the 
cabin,  calling  back  that  she  would  call  John 
Fairmeadow  when  tea  was  ready,  and  that  he 

mustn't  come  a  minute  before. 

* 

Here's  a  pretty  pass  for  a  tale  to  come  to 


352  LOVE  AND   LABOUR 

which  should  have  a  happy  ending !  John 
Fairmeadow  brooding  in  the  failing  light  at  the 
edge  of  the  woods  :  John  Fairmeadow  downcast 
and  self-accusing.  "  Poor  little  thing  ! "  thinks 
he  ;  "  she's  frightened — a  mere  hint  of  the  thing 
has  frightened  her  !  "  John  Fairmeadow,  pacing 
the  patch  of  wild-flowers,  in  grave  trouble,  called 
himself  hard  names.  Had  he  not  frightened  and 
distressed  the  little  soul  that  he  loved  so  much  ? 
Why  shouldn't  he  call  himself  hard  names  ? 
And  what  right  had  John  Fairmeadow,  some- 
time Bowery  drunkard  and  outcast,  to  lift  his 
eyes  to  this  sweet-blooming  flower  o'  the  woods  ? 
Regeneration  was  all  very  well  in  its  way ;  but 
regeneration  and  new  service  could  not  wash  a 
man's  past  away  so  that  no  stain  remained  upon 
his  honour.  John  Fairmeadow  had  asked  his 
God  all  about  it,  of  course,  being  a  man  of  that 
sort,  and  his  God  had  seemed  to  approve ;  but 
Fairmeadow  was  convinced,  now  that  Pattie 
Batch  had  fled,  that  he  had  mistaken  the  quiet 
voice  in  his  own  heart — and  Fairmeadow  was 
ashamed  of  himself.  He  would  say  no  more  : 
he  would  teach  Pattie  Batch  to  forget  that  he 
had  said  anything  at  all ;  and  in  this  resolve  he 
waited,  downcast,  brooding  and  ashamed,  for 
Pattie's  call  from  the  cabin.  And  as  for  little 
Pattie,  in  the  meantime,  she  was  having  much 
ado  to  get  tea  at  all :  for  the  mist  in  her  gray 
eyes  blinded  her,  and  her  hands  would  never  do 


LOVE   AND    LABOUR  351 

the  thing"  she  told  them  to,  and  she  could  find 
nothing  at  all  in  its  place,  and  the  tears  just 
would  fall  on  the  toast,  and  everything,  positively 
everything,  was  at  sixes  and  sevens  in  her  heart 
no  less  than  in  her  kitchen. 

Pattie  Batch,  you  see,  who  had  long  ago  ob- 
served the  crisis  approaching,  had  resolved  and 
determined  not  to  spoil  John  Fairmeadow's  life 
— not  even  if  the  baby  never  had  a  father. 
"  No,  by  ginger  !  "  thinks  she.     "  I  won't !  " 
Nothing  but  the  dusk  and  starlight  of  spring 
could  solve  such  a  tangle  as  this.     A  deuce  of  a 
job,  too,  of  course  ! 

Dusk  and  starlight  came  together — dusk  and 
starlight  of  spring  at  the  edge  oi  the  woods. 
This  was  long  after  tea — long  after  John  Fair- 
meadow,  in  the  merriest  fashion  in  the  world, 
had  partaken  of  toast  and  tears.  Long  after  the 
baby  had  been  put  to  bed,  too :  at  a  time,  in- 
deed, when  the  mystical  powers  of  dusk  and 
starlight  had  waxed  large  and  mischievous. 
John  Fairmeadow  and  Pattie  Batch  sat  on  Gray 
Billy  Batch's  porch  together.  The  still,  sweet 
dusk  had  fallen.  They  looked  out  over  the  little 
clearing — to  the  black  pines  and  to  the  high  star- 
lit sky.  Presently  John  Fairmeadow  began  to 
tell  Pattie  Batch  of  those  other  days — days 
terrible  in  memory.  And  Pattie  Batch  came 
closer — closer  yet — as  the  tale  of  many  sorrows 


354  LOVE   AND   LABOUR 

was  unfolded.  Her  motherly  little  heart  ached  : 
it  was  in  her  heart,  perhaps,  but  to  give  comfort ; 
but  however  that  may  be — and  I  arn  not  informed 
— she  was  presently  drawn  comfortingly  close  to 
John  Fairmeadow  without  knowing  it  at  all.  She 
sighed,  sometimes  ;  she  sobbed  a  little,  too  :  and 
always,  while  the  tale  went  on,  she  gave  a  loving 
sympathy  to  the  teller.  John  Fairmeadow  was 
unaware :  only  the  dusk  and  the  starlight  knew 
— and  the  little  stars  winked  happily  at  the  sight 
of  it  all.  Nothing  was  held  back  by  John  Fair- 
meadow  :  no  bitterness  of  degradation — no  depth 
of  sin — was  concealed.  And  at  the  end  of  the 
wretched  recital — so  had  dusk  and  starlight  and 
love  worked  upon  them  both — little  Pattie  Batch 
was  snuggled  close  to  John  Fairmeadow — was 
held  close,  too,  so  that  John  Fairmeadow  had  no 
difficulty  whatsoever  in  softly  kissing  her  up- 
turned, tear-stained  face. 

"I  love  you,  dear,"  said  he. 

"  I'm  glad,"  she  whispered.  "  Oh,  I'm  so 
glad ! " 

They  looked  away  to  the  pines  and  stars. 
Beyond — far  beyond — Fairmeadow  saw  himself 
walking  upright  and  at  work  in  a  world  of  men, 
but  not  now  going  the  path  alone ;  and  it  may 
be  that  Pattie  Batch,  too,  visioned,  in  the  far 
sky,  the  glory  of  her  future. 

"  You  and  I,  dear ! "  said  Fairmeadow. 

"  You  and  I,  Jack ! " 


LOVE  AND   LABOUR  355 

"Always,  dear?" 

41  Always." 

They  sat  in  this  way  for  a  long,  long  time, 
both  dreaming,  both  with  eyes  lifted  to  the  stars, 
each  with  a  heart  of  joy;  but  presently  little 
Pattie  Batch  jumped  up,  as  though  bethinking 
herself  of  a  forgotten  duty. 

"Jack,"  she  gasped,  "I  forgot  to  tell  the 
baby." 

Roused  from  sound  sleep,  the  baby  wailed 
dolorously.  It  was  a  stout  complaint. 

"Well?"  Fairmeadow  asked,  when  Pattie 
Batch  got  back, 

"  He's  glad,  too,"  replied  little  Pattie  Batch. 

Well,  well,  well !  all  said  and  done,  the  thing 
being  told,  at  last,  they  go  along  very  well  at 
Swamp's  End — love  and  labour.  As  love  and 
labour  will,  unfailingly,  being  genuinely  joined 
together.  There  is  no  doubting  it  at  all :  they 
are  placid  companions  of  the  soul — givers  of 
hope  and  wise  counsellors.  They  are  true :  they 
do  not  fail.  They  go  along  very  well,  indeed, 
at  Swamp's  End ;  but  there  is  no  Mister  Pattie 
Batch  at  Swamp's  End,  notwithstanding  all  that 
occurred  in  the  dusk  at  Gray  Billy  Batch's  lazy 
clearing  on  the  edge  of  the  big  woods.  There  is 
no  Mister  Pattie  Batch,  believe  me:  there  is 
nothing  but  a  Mrs.  John  Fairmeadow.  A  rosy, 
dimpled,  twinkling-eyed,  shy,  appealing,  ador- 


356  LO^E   AND    LABOUR 

able  little  woman,  of  astonishing  capacity  :  but 
only  a  little  Mrs.  John,  after  all — which,  indeed, 
if  the  truth  were  known,  she  had  rather  be  than 
anything  else  in  all  the  wide  world.  There  is 
John  Fairmeadow  at  Swamp's  End,  as  well  as 
Mrs.  John  Fairmeadow :  big,  beloved  John  Fair- 
meadow,  who  still  scolds  and  beseeches,  and 
marries  and  buries,  the  boys,  and  who  still  right 
lustily  wields  his  broom  of  righteousness  in 
those  woods — big  John  Fairmeadow :  in  the 
measure  of  his  service  and  in  the  stature  of  his 
soul  a  Man.  There  is  the  little  partner,  too — 
lying  at  ease  in  the  green  field  near  by  town : 
still  tenderly  loved,  you  may  be  sure,  and  still 
inspiring.  And  there  is  the  baby.  Of  course — 
there  is  the  baby !  There  is  the  Adorable  One, 
satisfactorily  fathered,  at  last :  still  with  an  un- 
conquered  and  inexplicable  predilection  for 
lumber-jacks,  as  when  on  the  Christmas  Eve  of 
his  advent  at  Swamp's  End,  Billy  the  Beast 
poked  a  finger  at  his  stout  abdomen  and  excited 
nothing  but  a  loud  peal  of  laughter. 

And  there's  something  more  than  that  at 
Swamp's  End.  There  are  — 

Two  babies  ! 


THE  END 


